


War Is Over

by Pitry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 113,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitry/pseuds/Pitry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry felt tired. In the morning after the morning after, he was downright exhausted. The war may be over, but there are still battles to be fought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Beginning

In the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry felt tired, as if he hadn’t slept for days, weeks, or even years. In the morning after the morning after, tiredness gave way to exhaustion, which was already threatening to become a full blown breakdown. Harry couldn’t remember what not being tired felt like, couldn’t remember what rest was like, couldn’t remember silence or feeling not elated with joy or shocked and depressed with the terrible truth or frightened to an inch of his life, but simply being. Being bored, being mildly amused, being disgusted with things like spiders and leftovers from yesterday.

In short, if Harry Potter didn’t find a bed right now, he would drop on the floor of the Great Hall right there and then and start snoring between the debris.

It shouldn’t have been this hard to find a bed. After all, he was at Hogwarts, where four dorms with many, many beds were available. But he had tried that before, curling in his old bed in the seventh-year dorm room of the Gryffindor Tower. Needless to say that with the doors to the tower all open, and everyone looking specifically for him, he didn’t get much sleep even in that once safe haven.

No. He had to get away from Hogwarts, from the debris, from the bodies, and mostly from the people who still wanted him around, to see him and to touch him, as if fearing that if they left Hogwarts, that if they lost sight of Harry, this new reality everyone was trying to get used to would simply disappear, that they would wake up and realise it was all a dream and Voldemort is still out there.

And everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone expected him not only to stick around, but to stick around with them. This one was a Gryffindor student, the other fought in the battle just now, here’s a classmate, or a teacher... Some of them had more of a right to him than others, of course. Harry forever would look at the Weasleys as his family, and that they wanted him to share in their joy and grief was only natural, understandable, even touching - a reminder that despite their losses, to which he still felt responsible, he was one of them.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t look Molly Weasley in the eye, not after Fred. He couldn’t be there and pretend it wasn’t his fault, or at least, his responsibility. That he hadn’t been careless with others’ lives. And that one of those lives ended up being Fred Weasley.

He had to get out of there, he had to get out of there now, and he had to get out of there alone.

The invisibility cloak, of course, provided a partial solution. He could put it on, and for a moment become invisible. But only a moment, because the school was crowded as it had never been before - it seemed for a moment like all of Britain’s wizards found their way into the remains of the great hall. With every step of the way, he would walk too closely to someone, step over another’s toes, or knock something off. He would be invisible,yes - but not undetectable.

But it was a start. He could put on the cloak and go - where? He wondered for a moment, and the solution offered itself instantly. Hogsmeade. The Hog’s Head. He had waved Aberforth goodbye and thanked him again last night, and saw him take the path back to the village and to his pub, muttering about politicians, kids, wizards, glory seekers, and just about everything else. He couldn’t help but smile even now, remembering Aberforth’s rant. Yes, Aberforth would understand.

And so, under the invisibility cloak, he set out on the small road to the village, walking undetected towards the old man’s pub. And immediately he felt better. The air felt fresher, as if all the death and destruction at Hogwarts changed how the place smelt and felt, and not just how it looked. He could see the new sun, still fresh, promising a better day. The road was still wet from the rain of the evening before, or the one before that, he couldn’t even tell anymore. It all felt like a dream, and none of it mattered anymore. And for a moment, he felt as if he didn’t need to sleep at all, as if he could just spend all the day walking like that, alone, enjoying an endless morning in silence.

Of course, by the time he made it to the Hog’s Head, he felt like he couldn’t keep his eyes open for another second. A weak knock on Aberforth’s back door was all he managed, and there was no end to his joy when the door was opened only a moment later. Aberforth looked around at the seemingly empty alley in confusion, and then his face broke into a smile.

“Get in, Potter,” he muttered softly, and Harry followed him in, still not taking off the cloak.

Aberforth seemed to approve. “Keep your cloak on, boy,” he said, “the Hog’s Head has been getting more customers than I’ve seen in years. No need for them to see you here. Just go upstairs, room six is free.”

“Thank you,” Harry muttered, an inadequate way to express his gratitude, but the only one he managed at the moment.

“Just go to sleep,” Aberforth said gruffly, and returned to the pub.

Harry climbed the stairs, still under his invisibility cloak, careful not to make any noise. Tt the second floor, he found room 6. It was small, simple, with no excess decorations. There were no pictures of famous wizards, or luxurious furniture, or a big bath. The only thing in the room, in fact, was a simple bed, and that was the only thing Harry really wanted at the moment.

He didn’t even bother to undress, just removed his shoes and crawled inside the blanket. He couldn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow before he was fast asleep.

He wasn’t quite sure what woke him up.The curtains were drawn, hiding the sun from view. The bed was comfortable, the pillow soft, and for a second he closed his eyes again, ready to fall back into oblivious sleep.

But there it was again - the noise. Harry jumped awake, sitting up and opening his eyes wide, looking for his wand. And then he breathed again - it was only Aberforth, putting a tray on the bed stand.

“Thought you might be hungry, Potter,” he said. Harry realised that he wasn’t just hungry - he was famished. His stomach agreed loudly, and the old barkeep smiled.

“Toast, eggs, orange juice and some fried mushrooms,” he said. “More like breakfast than dinner, but I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Harry nodded and started wolfing down the meal.

“It doesn’t look like they’ve realised you’re gone yet,” Aberforth continued. “Or, at least, they haven’t realised you’re here yet. I’ve had people coming and going all day long and no one’s asked about you.”

Harry nodded again, pleased. The longer he had before being forced to find a new hiding place, the better.

“They are talking about you, though,” Aberforth continued, and his eyes found Harry’s. “You better be careful. Soon the legend around you will be so big that no one would believe you actually exist.”

“That might not be such a bad idea,” Harry replied, and Aberforth chuckled again.

“I’m not so sure about that, boy. I think you will find that there are quite some benefits to being a hero.”

“I don’t want them,” Harry said immediately. “I’d rather just be normal.”

“You’ll never be normal, Potter, whatever that means, so get that notion out of your head. And the sooner you accept that you’re a hero and are going to remain a hero for the rest of your life, the easier this is going to be for you. Don’t fight it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You give up very easily, don’t you?” he said dryly, and Aberforth just smiled again. “Well, we’ll see,” Harry concluded quietly and finished his orange juice.

“Yes,” Aberforth agreed. “We’ll see. Who knows, maybe you will get your wish. The last couple of hours already had some gossip that wasn’t all about you.”

“Oh?” Harry asked in interest and Aberforth burst out laughing.

“See?” he asked, laughter still in his voice. “Already you wonder how can anyone talk about anything else but you, so soon after your great victory.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but took the comment in the same good spirit it was given. “What were they talking about?” he asked again.

“You-Know ... Voldemort.”

“Well, that makes sense. Do they use his name now?”

“No. Nor would they touch his body.”

Harry looked at Aberforth in confusion.

“They’ve been sorting through the bodies from Hogwarts. Preparing for the funerals, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, thinking of red-headed Fred Weasley, whose body will probably be moved to the Burrow, and of Lupin and Tonks, who will probably be buried close to the house of Andromeda Tonks.

“Well, someone moved his body from the Great Hall alright,” Aberforth interrupted his thoughts, “but no one knows what to do with it.”

‘Why can’t they just bury him?” Harry blurted out.

Aberforth didn’t answer immediately, but watched him closely. “Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you,” he said in a mixture of pity and wonder.

Harry thought about it for a moment. Where could Tom Riddle Jr. possibly be buried? Not in any wizard cemetery. No one would want to have their loved ones lie in proximity to the greatest monster of all time. And every wizard cemetery would have by now a good amount of Tom Riddle Jr.’s many victims, lying there as a result of two eras of sheer terror. No, no one would want to visit graves of family or friends and see the name Tom Riddle on their way.

And besides, what would they write on the tombstone? Here lies the worst wizard who had ever lived? This is the final resting place of a murderer, a coward, a monster? Beware, here be monsters! The most terrible man to have ever lived has found his eternal resting place here.

Here lies Tom Riddle Jr., a man the world would have been better without. Remember his crimes. Never repeat them.

No, now Harry understood what Aberforth meant. Of course the body could not be buried in any area known to wizards around the world.

But Harry couldn’t quite accept any of the alternatives, either. Throw him away somewhere? Or perhaps, like Berty Crouch Sr., turn his body into a bone and bury it in an unmarked spot, or turn him into nothing altogether?

It was reasonable, it was sensible, it was no more than he deserved, and it was probably the best thing to do. And to Harry, it felt so utterly wrong.

“I think they decided to deal with it in the morning,” Aberforth finally said. He had been watching Harry intently, when he spoke as well as in his silence. But he offered no word of advice, no suggestion as to the best course of action, and Harry knew that if he ignored the opportunity that was silently suggested in Aberforth’s last sentence, he wouldn’t think any less of him.

In fact, he would probably think better of him.

But Harry knew he couldn’t ignore that opportunity, and he knew that Aberforth realised this - and still, he brought it up. Harry was grateful for the opportunity, just as he was for the bed and food. He even tried to say so, but was immediately silenced by Aberforth.

“You did your bit,” the old man said grumpily, “now it’s my turn to do mine. Only the natural order of things.”

Harry smiled and watched the old man leave the room. As soon as he was gone, Harry jumped off the bed, put on his shoes and his invisibility cloak - being otherwise fully dressed - and quietly opened the door. Tiptoeing down the stairs, he realised he need not bother being quiet - the noise from the pub was deafening, and Harry wondered how he could sleep at all with that noise. It sounded as if the celebrations of Voldemort’s defeat were still going strong - and good for Aberforth that they were going on in his pub, Harry thought with a burst of loyalty. With all the help he had given them, Aberforth Dumbledore deserved to be the one to make some money from the celebrations.

If the Hog’s Head was noisy in its celebrations, Hogwarts’ crowd was downright deafening, at the end of the second day after the victory. To Harry, it seemed as if none of the people who had participated in the battle wanted to leave, and more and more joined them.

Some, of course, had to leave. Kingsley Shacklebolt was still cleaning things up at the Ministry, together with other Ministry officials, investigating Death Eaters and hiring new staff. Rita Skeeter, who had shown her face around Hogwarts after the battle and followed Harry around, trying to interview him, was gone - doubtlessly following Kingsley and looking for the best ways to blame him for anything she could think of, Harry thought darkly. Others whose services were invaluable were already gone, too. But together with the teachers, the students, and the surviving members of the Order, Harry could see friends and relatives of those who were present in the battle; wizards and witches who had long gone into hiding from fear of Voldemort and his Death Eaters - for a second, he thought he had recognised Reg and Mary Cattermole amongst the crowd; and even some of Gringotts’ goblins were there. Harry considered searching to see if Griphook was still there, and whether he lamenting the loss of the Sword of Gryffindor - again. But in the end, he decided against it.

He had more important things to do.

Most of the bodies were no longer in the castle. A lot of the rooms have been rebuilt in the day since Harry took off. A lot of the rubble had been removed. The old castle was slowly being restored to its former glory. But in a far away room in the dungeons, some of the bodies were still lying, unreclaimed by any wizard or witch. Not just Voldemort was there - Bellatrix Lestrange was put next to him, ever to his right, even in death. And other Death Eaters, some recognised by Harry, some not. His eyes went over the dead for a moment, and he was unsure what was he trying to see, who he was looking for, until he realised. Vincent Crabbe’s body was not amongst those who were put in the dungeons. His classmate’s body was never found, consumed forever by the Fiendfyre he had conjured.

For a moment Harry stopped, averted his eyes from the bodies, and thought hard. Was he sad for Crabbe? Was he sad for any of them? His first reaction was no - not for Crabbe, not for Bellatrix, and definitely not for Riddle. Not ever for Lord Voldemort. He wasn’t sad for any of them. Pity, maybe, but they have chosen their path freely, and he was happy they were dead, and if all the sorrow and pain they have inflicted on others wasn’t gone, at least they couldn’t inflict more.

And still, his eyes sought the 18-year-old Vincent Crabbe between the bodies, and something in him regretted not seeing the body.

But Crabbe wasn’t the reason he had come to the room, and neither was any other Death Eater. He came for Voldemort, and now that he was there, he was no longer sure what to do. He wanted to bury him, yes, in quiet, by himself, without a tombstone, without any words. Without the hate on people’s face and without the anger that this man was getting a grave, while some of their loved ones never will. But now that he was there, he realised this might be a tougher task than he first imagined. Even if he could find a far away spot, a part of the grounds of Hogwarts which no wizard or witch were occupying at the moment, how would he get Voldemort’s body there? He had no wish to put that body under the invisibility cloak - and he wasn’t sure that this would prove any good - the two of them, even when one is carried, would be too big for the cloak.

His salvation came from an unexpected source. With just enough time to hide further inside the room once he heard the footsteps, Harry could hear Kingsley Shacklebolt and Cornelius Fudge walking into the room.

Fudge looked at the bodies in disdain. “This is what’s left of him,” he said in a voice full of hatred.

Kingsley nodded. “The last remains of Lord Voldemort,” he said, and Fudge visibly shuddered.

“I’m still not used to hearing the name,” he apologised half-heartedly, and Kingsley acknowledged him with a nod. Harry remembered what Aberforth said - most people still didn’t call him by his name. Even after his death, Lord Voldemort’s name was enough to put fear into the hearts of wizards. He suspected it would take a long time before that bad habit disappeared for good.

“I have half a heart to burn them all now,” Kingsley continued. “It would save us a lot of trouble. But I suppose we need to give the families some more time to claim the bodies.”

“I doubt anyone ever will,” was the reply he got from his companion. “Being the relative of a Death Eater isn’t just an embarrassing anecdote.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow, and Fudge continued. “I mean, you gotta wonder, don’t you? They were all raised to be this, so who says their family isn’t just as filthy, only they had more sense to hide it? I say, arrest the lot of them.”

“To arrest them, you need a reason,” Kingsley replied, but not without kindness.

“They were Death Eaters,” Fudge mumbled. “That’s reason enough.”

Harry felt the anger rising in him. This was Fudge, the man who employed Dolores Umbridge until the end, who had never recognised her for what she was, a woman who gladly cooperated with the Death Eaters even without being one herself, who cooperated with them willingly and with joy. And he was lecturing Kinglsey about the relatives of Death Eaters, about people - Harry realised - who might be like Andromeda Tonks, who had joined the fight against Voldemort out of her free will, despite her parents, her sister, her upbringing? About people like Sirius?

He had half a mind to reveal himself there and then, and to shout at Fudge for his words and ignorance and his part in allowing Voldemort to gain power again in the first place. But he remained quiet, and simply listened to Fudge speaking again.

“Well, no one’s going to claim You-Know-Who,” he said, “so we might as well get rid of him tonight. The sooner his body is gone, the better.”

“Tomorrow,” Kingsley said again. “We’ll be back again tomorrow. Are you going back to the Ministry?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I tell you, Kingsley, in a way, it is lucky the protections of Hogwarts are down, even if it will take forever to put them back up again. If I had to walk through the Great Hall and the Grounds again to get out of here, I don’t know what I’d do. All those people! And none of them will shut up.” Having finished airing his grievance with the celebrating survivors, Fudge turned on the spot and Apparated.

Kingsley stayed behind a moment longer, surveying the room, and then followed Fudge and Apparated out of the castle.

Harry looked around thoughtfully. Ignoring Fudge’s words for the moment, he was glad now of witnessing the conversation, or at least its end. So the battle had damaged the defences around Hogwarts enough to allow Apparition inside the castle. Well - that made things easier.

Harry Potter grabbed the lifeless body of the man who had haunted his dreams for years, and turned on the spot.

He appeared again far away from the noise and commotion. Right where he wanted to be - deep in the Forbidden Forest, in the same spot that only a couple of days ago had served as the camping site of Voldemort and his supporters. Here, where Hagrid’s huge spiders once dwelled, he put the body down on the earth, and waved his wand once, twice, creating a hole big enough to put it in, a forgotten grave for Lord Voldemort. Another swish of the wand and the body was in the grave, six feet under, the earth back on top, and the forest clearing looked as if it was never disturbed - well, aside from a giant or two.

There was no stone to mark Tom Riddle Jr.’s grave, no tombstone, no last words. No funeral procession, no mourning family and no hating masses. Tom Riddle lived and died in infamy as Lord Voldemort, but was buried an anonymous body in an unmarked spot, deep in the forest, where no one would ever know. And for the first time in a long, long while, Harry Potter felt pleased.

Another turn on the spot and he, too, was gone from Hogwarts.

He Apparated back at the Hog’s Head’s door. Unseen beneath his cloak, he tiptoed up the stairs into room number six, removed his shoes, socks, and this time his clothes as well, and went back to bed.

He woke up once in the middle of the night to the sound of laughter. People were celebrating in the street, unwilling to go to sleep, to let the day end. It was the second day since the victory over Voldemort, and still people had a hard time believing their good fortune, and just wanted to know for sure they’re alive. Harry smiled and turned in his bed, falling back asleep immediately.

The next time he woke up it was already morning, and Hermione Granger was sitting on a chair by his bed, eating a piece of toast and reading the _Daily Prophet_.

“Morning,” he said after he put his glasses back on his face.

“Oh,” she said, “you’re awake.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About half an hour, give or take. Aberforth told me you were here,” she continued, seeing the puzzled expression on his face. “He’s keeping the fact you’re here a secret, of course, but he figured he could make an exception for me and Ron.”

Harry nodded. Aberforth wasn’t wrong. He sat up and look at the room. “Where is Ron, really?”

Hermione’s face darkened for a moment. “In the Burrow.”

Harry nodded. Of course. “How is... everyone?”

Hermione looked as if she was going to cry for a moment, but then the moment passed and when she spoke, her voice sounded completely clear. “They’re... coping. George’s taking it very hard, of course. And Molly... it’s hard. You know. The funeral’s in three days.”

Harry nodded again. He knew. And there was nothing to say, really, so he reached for the plate and picked up a piece of toast.

“What are they saying?” he gestured towards the paper as he asked with his mouth half full. If Hermione found it distasteful, she said nothing, and just passed on the paper.

Harry scanned the headline. Oh. Right. He should have expected it. He raised his eyes and met Hermione’s gaze. His expression was all she needed for confirmation.

“I thought it was your handiwork,” she said.

The headline, of course, talked of the great mystery of the disappearance of Voldemort’s body.

“It seemed like the best thing,” he shrugged, and Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s just... I’m not sure if it wasn’t the best idea to just let people... do whatever they wanted with him.”

She didn’t look at him when she said those words, but after a moment her eyes met his, and she was unapologetic about it. “People need closure,” she explained quietly. “You had your closure, you saw him die, you - “ she didn’t say ‘killed him’, and he was grateful for it. He wasn’t sorry Voldemort was dead, no. And he knew the role he had played in his death. But he didn’t use the Killing Curse on Tom Riddle Jr., and he didn’t use it on purpose. Tom Riddle died because of his own stupidity, his own short-sightenedness. Lord Voldemort’s death was brought on by his own mistakes. Not because Harry set out to kill him.

“But a lot of people didn’t get that closure, Harry, and seeing the body disposed of... it might have given them some peace,” Hermione continued. “Now it’s just a mystery. It makes people scared again.”

“They will get over it,” Harry said shortly. He wasn’t about to apologise, too.

“I’m not so sure,” she answered, and for a long moment afterwards, the only sound that was heard in the room was the sound of toast being chewed.

“Anyway,” she finally said, her voice and face bright again, “this wasn’t why I came here. I came here to... to ask you a favour.”

“Anything,” he said, and meant it completely.

“I’ll be going after the funeral. My mum and dad - they’re in Australia, and I need to find them. I don’t have a lot to go on with, just their new names and the fact they’re probably in Sydney. But I need to find them again. And I think Ron will need to be with his family for the next couple of weeks.”

“I’ll be happy to come with you,” Harry said in such earnestness that Hermione cracked a smile.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said. “I’d rather not do this on my own.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m just looking for an excuse to get away!” he said passionately, and she became serious again.

“You’ll have to live with it, Harry. You need to accept that people are going to keep on looking up to you. If you thought you were famous before... you’re going to be a hundredfold now. And I don’t think only in Britain, too.” Her words were almost word-for-word the warning Aberforth Dumbledore gave Harry the night before. And she was right. They were both right. Of course they were right.

But if Harry could postpone that moment in which he would have to face to being the most famous man in the wizarding world, and with it postpone the obvious role it would force on him, he would do whatever it takes. He wasn’t ready, not yet. Despite spending the last seven years in the spotlight, ever since the day he walked into Diagon Alley with Hagrid, he realised this would be on a completely new level, and he just wasn’t ready.

But he didn’t have a choice. The war might be over, but Harry’s life would still be dictated by it, for years to come.

As if reading his mind, Hermione smiled. “I’m really glad you’ll come, Harry,” she said. “Now come on, let’s get out of here. I’m sure the Weasleys would love to see you.”

Harry looked at the floor, and didn’t answer.

“No one blames you, Harry,” she said softly. “None of us thought we’d make it out alive when he showed up. And you were ready to die, you went there to save us all, and - it’s not your fault. Surely you realise that?”

“I know,” he said quietly, but still didn’t meet her eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated. “It’s because of you that - you saved us all, Harry. You beat him. We all knew what was at stake when we went to fight. And you beat him. And you saved so many people. No one could save everyone, Harry, not even you.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“Then come on, then, because the last thing Molly needs right now is to think that you blame yourself. She’s already grieving enough. They need you there.”

They needed him. For a moment, Harry craved not to be needed - not by anyone. But it wasn’t fair. The Weasleys had sacrificed Fred for him, for the fight, and he wasn’t the first who was hurt, not with Bill and Arthur, and Molly’s two brothers... for the Weasleys, he was willing to be needed.

And so he packed his invisibility cloak. Everything else was left, only a couple of days ago that seemed like forever, in Bill and Fleur’s cottage, or at Hogwarts, and was now back in the Burrow, Hermione reassured him. And they went downstairs and said goodbye to Aberforth, and once again Harry tried to thank the man and was turned down with a grump. And so they stepped into the chilly May morning, and Apparated to the Burrow.

Going back to the Burrow had always been like going back home, to the home Harry never had. From the first time he had been there, arriving in that flying Ford Anglia, he had loved everything about the old house, from the magical watch and cluttered living room to the garden gnomes. But most of all, he had loved the Weasleys. It was them who made the place a true home for him - and they were the reason his heart was, for the first time, filled with dread as they were approaching the familiar house.

He knew it wasn’t his fault. He knew he had no choice. He knew his actions had saved so many people, perhaps the entire wizarding world itself. Definitely the Weasleys. But it wasn’t until he saw Ron walking towards him from the house, relief on his face, that the lump in his throat melted away.

“You finally made it,” Ron said quietly, and looked at Harry, and Harry looked back at Ron, and saw the happiness underneath the grief. “Mum was worried about you. I told her you were fine, that you probably found all the attention a bit too much and was hiding somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled, and Ron smiled back, genuinely happy to see him. He then turned to Hermione and hugged her tightly, ending the hug with a kiss. Harry smiled - in the past he dreaded this possibility a bit, then became impatient with his two friends. Now he was just happy for them.

“We had to send her after you, or Mum would not shut up. C’mon, she’d want to see you.”

Harry nodded, and followed Ron into the Burrow, only to be engulfed by Molly Weasley the second his foot stepped in the house.

“Oh, _Harry_!” she cried, and embraced him, her eyes full of tears.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, trying to be as soothing as possible. “It’s okay.”

Behind her back, Ron did his best not to chuckle, and Hermione smiled a sad, understanding smile.

Finally, Molly let go of Harry. “Oh, Harry,” she said again, this time more in control of her emotions. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s great to see you too, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said honestly, and her eyes filled with tears again.

Finally, she had let him go, and another red-headed Weasley caught him for a hug. He was lost in Ginny’s arms for a moment, the first time they had a chance to be together at all for such a long time, longer than he could remember. He knew Ron would prefer not to see them show their affection to each other too much, but for just that moment, he didn’t care, as he kissed her and held her and just marvelled at the fact that they were, once again, together, and for once there was nothing to come between them.

But Ron wasn’t mad - when Harry caught his eye, he was almost appreciative, and then Harry looked around and understood. For what must have been the first time in two days, Molly Weasley’s face was shining with happiness and she was smiling her biggest smile, looking at the two of them.

If Harry’s presence in Ginny’s life made Molly Weasley happy enough to forget her grief, even just for a little bit, it was alright by Ron, and Harry was grateful both for the effect it had on Mrs. Weasley and for Ron’s approval. But not as grateful as he was for being with Ginny once again.

Everyone was in the living room, spending time together - Bill and Fleur, Charlie - even Percy. Only the twins were missing. Ron had whispered to Harry as they were went outside for dinner that George hardly came out of his room these last couple of days. He did not seek comfort in his family, and only came down for meals, where he sat down, quiet and subdued, not participating in the family chitchat that had slowly gone back to normal, if only for five minutes at a time. It was almost like that summer when Fred and George were hiding in their room, working on the Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, but not quite - instead of weird explosions, there was only silence.

The entire evening was not quite what Harry had come to expect from the Weasleys. The regular bursts of laughter and jokes were shorter than usual, and quieter, and the silences were longer, in which every member of the family was quiet and deep in thoughts, deep in mourning.

They tried to be happy with the great victory, and with Harry’s presence. Hermione, sitting next to Ron and hugging him the entire evening, would engage Harry in conversation every once in a while. He was sitting opposite to them, hugging Ginny. At times the others would also drop in with the conversation, and for a moment there would be laughter and joy again - and then the silence would come back. And yet, even as the night grew longer and with it the silence, and the yawns started appearing, no one in the Burrow’s living room made any attempt to leave. They would come up with new topics of conversations, new ways to stay awake, to stay together.

And so, they reached the topic of the Malfoy family. “You know,” Arthur told Harry in a quiet tone, “they arrested Malfoy.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t surprised. After all, Lucius Malfoy had been one of Voldemort’s closest followers, even if he changed his mind in the end. “Well, Lucius does have some things to answer for,” he said.

“No, not Lucius - well,” Arthur corrected himself, “they did arrest Lucius, but they also arrested his son, the one who was in your class.”

“About time,” Ron said, but Harry, who until then had been half-sitting, half-leaning on Ginny, sat up in attention.

“What did they arrest him for?” he asked.

“Are you serious?” Ron turned to him, surprised. “He was a Death Ea - you’re the one who insisted all that time a couple of years ago that he had become a Death Eater! You were right! He tried to kill us!”

“They shouldn’t have arrested him, I mean, he didn’t really want to...” Harry’s voice trailed, as Ron made disgusted noises.

“Maybe you could come down to the Ministry tomorrow with me,” Arthur suggested gently. “Talk to Kingsley, if there’s something you want to say on the matter.”

“Yeah, maybe I would,” Harry answered.

“What are you - I’m not - have you completely lost it?!” By now, Ron was sitting up at full attention as well, staring at Harry. Hermione seemed to be grabbing at his shirt, as if afraid he’d get up completely if she didn’t hold him back.

Molly got up from her seat completely, standing and yawning in the middle of the living room. “Well, looks like it’s time to go to bed!” she announced, trying to stop the discussion from going on any further. And sleeping might not be such a bad idea. Harry was about to sneak a smile at Ginny, when Molly started talking again. “Harry, you’ll sleep in Ron’s room, as always; Hermione’s staying with Ginny, like last night. Bill and Fleur - “

“It’s alright, Mum,” Bill got up, and distracted Molly before she could catch the expressions of the four teenagers who were sitting on the floor, ranging from apprehension, through misgiving, to exasperation. “We’ll go back to Shell Cottage for tonight, and come back tomorrow. We know there isn’t enough space here.”

“Are you sure? We could put Percy and Charlie - “

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bill reassured her, this time distracting his mother from the grateful expression of his two brothers - the only place left, of course, was the attic, and no one wanted to sleep next to the ghoul, who had been even more noisy and intolerable of late, as it had been banished from Ron’s room back to his old dwelling place.

And so, the Weasley family went to sleep. Harry gave Ginny another long kiss, this time for goodnight, and shared with her the disappointed look at her mother’s intervention. And then, stealing a glance towards Ron and Hermione and seeing that they were still locked in a kiss that didn’t seem to be about to end anytime soon, he walked towards Arthur Weasley.

“When are you leaving for work tomorrow?” he asked quietly, as to not alert Ron.

“A bit early, I’m afraid,” Arthur replied, with enough decency to keep his voice down as well. “Things at work have been mad, of course. I’ll be leaving around 7:30.”

“I’ll be down,” Harry promised, and Arthur nodded and bade him goodnight.

And just in time, too, as Ron’s finally emerged from kissing Hermione, and with a slightly apologetic smile gestured Harry towards his room. “Mum’s been driving us mad,” he complained as they were climbing up the stairs. “You think none of her sons ever dated someone before!”

“Maybe she’s just not willing to admit ickle Ronnikins has grown up,” Harry teased.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t guess we’re adults, what with winning a war and all.”

Harry laughed loudly as they finally entered Ron’s room. The argument was forgotten, his stomach was full and he was about to enter a comfortable bed, and most important - he was finally home again, and everything was alright. And if he woke up sweating in the middle of the night with Ron already up and looking at him strangely, neither of them said a word, as there was no need to, but instead returned to sleep.

Things will get back to normal eventually.


	2. Ceremonies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of scenes in this chapter may be familiar to those who read my story _What's Past Is Prologue_. You'll have to indulge me - they were written with both stories in mind, _Prologue_ just got finished first!

Harry was slightly disoriented when he woke up, not long after the break of dawn. He had become so used to sleeping in strange beds, or strange places, that he wasn’t quite sure where he was for a moment - surely he couldn’t be sleeping in Ron’s room? After all, the Weasleys - were no longer in danger, now that Voldemort was dead, he remembered, and for a moment felt true relief.

And the indecision of last night became a decision. It was like Aberforth had told him - there were some benefits to being the hero who had saved the wizarding world, and he was going to enjoy a specific one this morning. The temporary Minister for Magic will listen to what he had to say on the subject of Draco Malfoy. So he got up and dressed up as quietly as possible, and tiptoed out of the room beneath the attic and down into the kitchen.

The kitchen was still empty. It was too early in the morning, even for Molly. Last night’s dinner dishes were all dried in their place, except for one big plate - fresh pieces of toast jumped into it all on their own after their time in the toaster. The floor was being swept by a broom, and in the corner, a small column of garden gnomes were trying to escape the cat.

Harry smiled to himself at the sight. Even after all these years, he never stopped being surprised by this magical kitchen. He walked for a moment outside of the kitchen, to look at the equally quiet living room. On the wall, right outside of the kitchen, his gaze met Molly’s magical clock, and his smile died out.

Eight hands were resting on the word ‘home’. Only eight. The ninth was gone, never to be seen again.

It was wrong.

“I’m of half a mind to get rid of this damn thing,” Harry jumped when he heard the voice behind him. It was only Arthur, all dressed up and ready for work, who had gone down to the kitchen in search of breakfast. “I can’t stand to look at it myself, and Molly starts crying every time she sees it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

Harry had nothing to say - he, too, thought it might not be a bad idea. He followed Arthur back into the kitchen, where he grabbed a piece of toast from the toaster and applied generous amounts of butter on it, and they ate in silence.

Harry and Arthur used the Floo network to get to the Ministry. The Floo network was open again, opened so soon after the fall of the previous Minister, Voldemort’s puppet. Pius Thicknesse was now being interrogated by experienced Aurors, claiming to have been put under the Imperius Curse by the hands of Voldemort himself. Arthur sighed when he told Harry this, as they were walking down the hall, where the ugly statue put by Voldemort’s regime was yet to be taken down - the Ministry had more important things on its mind.

“It’s just like last time. So many people are coming out now, saying they were under his influence. And just like last time, we haven’t found the method yet to sort them all out.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Looking for inconsistencies. Everyone’s busy with that, that’s why that thing - “ he pointed at the big statue, on which the words Magic is Might were clearly visible - “is still up. No one has the time to take care of it, we’re all up to our ears in work. But we should get to it soon. It gives everyone the chills, and if we want to make sure everybody knows we’re starting a new page, we need to do symbolic things as well as useful things. I’ve told Kingsley that yesterday, we’ve got time until that Skeeter woman gets bored with praising us and starts looking for a sensational headline, and we’ll be giving it to her if that thing is still up.”

“Don’t worry. When Rita Skeeter gets bored, she finds something to write about, and it wouldn’t matter at all whether that statue is there or not.”

“True enough,” Arthur scowled in dislike, just as they reached the security wizard.

“Good morning, James,” Arthur greeted him, and earned half a greet in return, which turned in mid-sentence to spluttering and shocked staring as the guard noticed Harry.

“Good morning, James,” Harry repeated Arthur’s greeting, and earned a half choked “Good morning, Mr. Potter” before the wizard jumped from his seat and shook Harry’s hand enthusiastically. “And I just wanted to say, from all of us here in the Ministry... thank you, Mr. Potter. Thank you.”

Harry mumbled something and tried to get himself out of the handshake. When he finally succeeded, he and Arthur continued down the corridor, Arthur doing his best not to laugh. He stopped being amused a short while afterwards, as the same scene played over and over again, and their short journey towards the office on the first floor had become ridiculously long. They were stopped by every person they passed in the corridor - every Ministry employee, every guest to the building, they were all shocked to see Harry, all enthusiastic, and all failed to consider that maybe the person before them had reacted the same way, and the person before that one, too.

“Maybe you should have brought your invisibility cloak with you, Harry,” Arthur whispered after they were stopped for the fourteenth time. “I have to tell you, I think you’re doing the right thing, going with Hermione.” They had told the Weasleys of their plan the night before, and although Ron seemed to want to go with them, he understood why it was better he stayed and Harry went.

“I’m getting a bit less sure,” Harry whispered his own reply. “If they’re like this now, how would they be if I’m gone for a couple of weeks.”

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment they heard other voices - Kingsley Shacklebolt and another wizard were arguing down the corridor, next to Kingsley’s office.

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” Kingsley asked sharply.

“We put it in the vault, like you said, and this morning someone went to check, and it wasn’t there,” answered the wizard, looking thoroughly miserable.

“You’re sure this is where you’ve put it?”

“Yes, Minister. It’s - well, I suppose it’s possible goblins got in here and took it, but - “

“I hope you’re not suggesting the Ministry of Magic is so ill protected that unknown guests can walk in, take whatever they like, and get away unnoticed?”

“I... I mean, we don’t... it shouldn’t be, there’s no sign...”

Kingsley sighed and lifted his head. His exasperated face lightened up considerably when he saw Harry and Arthur. “Harry! Arthur! Come in. We’ll finish this later,” he told the wizard in front of him, who seized the opportunity to vanish.

“I heard you were coming,” Kingsley told Harry with a smile. “Three different people asked me by now what you were doing here.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you were planning on becoming the next Minister,” Kingsley joked. “Come in, come in.”

Harry had never been to the office of the Minister himself. Unlike the Ministry building, it wasn’t meant to impress, but to be functional. There was no sign here of grandiose design of the great entrance or of the courtrooms. Just a big desk - full of paperwork, Harry noted, and couldn’t help feel sorry for poor Kingsley - some chairs, and pictures on the wall. Some were portraits - by the inscription underneath them, paintings of old Ministers, snoozing inside the frames. But Harry suspected they were not really asleep. At Hogwarts there were portraits like these, of old headmasters, and the old and powerful wizards had a tendency to stick their noses into matters that didn’t belong to them even after their death, offering advice and making comments. Harry had no doubt this lot were very much the same.

But not all were portraits - some were simply photographs. Soon, Harry realised why - those were the Ministers who were still alive. Near the bookcase, in front of the fireplace, he could see the photograph of Cornelius Fudge, even as just next to him stood a portrait of Rufus Scrimgeour.

Rufus Scrimgeour was not feigning sleep. Instead, his portrait looked directly at Harry, a smile on his face. Despite their differences when he was alive, Scrimgeour did not seem to hold a grudge against Harry in death.

After Scrimgeour, though, there was only an old painting of the tiniest of wizards, with no inscription on it. Pius Thicknesse was not recognised by this office as a Minister for Magic.

Behind Harry, Arthur walked in, and Kingsley closed the door. Harry turned to look at him. “I’m glad you’re here, Harry,” Kingsley said, and offered the both of them chairs. “There were a couple of questions I wanted to ask you.”

Harry looked at him in confusion. “You wanted to ask me?” he asked, unsure what to make of that statement. Surely whatever the Ministry wanted with him in the past was irrelevant now?

“I remember talking with - several other people, as it happens, and hearing that you wanted to become an Auror.”

“Yeah, I wanted to,” Harry answered without thinking, and Kingsley looked at him closely.

“Have you changed your mind? Or do you still want to be an Auror?”

Harry was about to open his mouth and say that no, he hasn’t, but then stopped. Has he changed his mind? He had done nothing in the past year but fight dark wizards and their schemes. Was this really what he wanted to do with his life? He wasn’t quite sure, but what he did know that there was nothing else he could think of that he could do.

“Yes,” he said, and believed the word.

“Good. You know quite a lot, no doubt about it, and obviously you have proved yourself in quite an amazing fashion, but I think going through the Auror training course would have its benefits, even for you. We are starting a course in September, as the Ministry is in dire need of Aurors, and we would be happy to have you enrolled there. Ron already said he will join us, too - I talked to him yesterday. Oh, don’t worry, I know he said nothing - “ Kingsley added, interpreting Harry’s expression correctly - “we asked him not to talk to you about it, as I wanted to ask you personally. I wasn’t quite sure you’d still be interested, you see, and I didn’t want young Mr. Weasley to put any unfair pressure on you on the subject.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. Yes, this was Kingsley. If he stayed Minister for Magic, things might actually work out for once.

“You said you wanted to ask me a couple of things?” he asked, now completely at ease.

“Oh, yes. I was hoping you could help me with a small riddle. You wouldn’t know anything about a disappearance of a body from the Hogwarts dungeons, would you?”

Kingsley’s piercing eyes looked straight at Harry. He knew. Of course he knew.

“I think,” Harry said carefully, “that it’s one of those things that are better left as a mystery.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but then, Kingsley wasn’t really curious. And he seemed to accept this answer, smiling in response to Harry’s words.

“It will be... a mystery, then?”

“Yes,” Harry said decidedly and stared at the wall above Kingsley’s head. Kingsley didn’t pursue the matter any further.

Instead, he offered Harry a cup of tea. “Sugar?” he asked.

“Just one, thanks.”

Kingsley handed him over a cup of tea, and then looked at Harry for a moment. “While I would be flattered if you came all this way because I had something to say, Harry, I’m assuming you came here with something you wanted?”

“Yeah. I heard you have Draco Malfoy in custody.”

“He is a Death Eater. We are rounding up all the remaining Death Eaters, for the trials.”

“He didn’t want to be a Death Eater.”

Kingsley sighed. “I realise he was a classmate of yours, Harry - “

“We’ve hated each other from the moment we’ve met,” Harry cut across him. “We were never friends. I’m not trying to cover up for him.”

“He has the Dark Mark on his arm.”

“It wasn’t his choice.”

“Harry, many people really were put under the Imperius Curse. We’re aware of that. But those who were branded with the Dark Mark, those who became Death Eaters, they didn’t act under anyone’s control. What he did - “

“ - Was stupid,” Harry stopped Kingsley again. “And not his choice. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore, even though he was supposed to. And he didn’t tell them who I was, even though he could. He saved my life, Kingsley. Voldemort would have got me sooner, with no way for me to defend myself. It wasn’t his choice.”

Kingsley got up from his chair and paced around the room. He stared at the pictures that decorated the walls. Right before him, Cornelius Fudge looked smugly down at the new Minister, his picture taken at his hour of glory, not long after Ireland’s victory in the Quidditch World Cup.

Kingsley looked at the picture for quite a long time. And then he turned back to the room, and his eyes were fixed on Harry’s.

“He’d have to stand trial,” he said, and there was no room for argument.

“Can I at least see him?” Harry asked, annoyed with Kingsley’s refusal to understand.

“Yes, yes, of course. He’s in Azkaban, I’ll arrange for him to be transported - “

“There would be no need, Minister,” Harry said coldly. “I can go there myself.”

If Kingsley noted Harry’s changed tone of voice, or his use of the title of Minister instead of his name, he didn’t comment, but just continued to talk in a cheerful, helpful voice. “Of course, of course. I’ll write to them immediately, tell them that you’re coming and to let you talk to whoever you want.”

“Thanks.” Harry got up to leave.

“Oh, and Harry,” Kingsley said, and Harry stopped in mid-movement to look at him. “You wouldn’t know about how Gringotts came to look like a battle zone, would you? The goblins are insisting we pay for re-building it. And get them a new dragon. I’m not quite sure who should get the bill.”

Harry looked at Kingsley in confusion, then in slight horror - and only then he noticed the edges of his mouth quiver.

Kingsley didn’t want them to part on bad terms, to let this disagreement come between them. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He laughed, and Kingsley allowed his mouth to open into a smile.

“Thanks, Kingsley,” Harry said again, and this time he meant it.

“No problem at all,” Kingsley said quietly, and they shook hands, and Harry and Arthur left the room.

“You’ve put him in a very difficult position, Harry,” Arthur said quietly as they were walking away from the office. “It’s not that Kingsley doesn’t understand where you’re coming from. He does. And so do I. But you need to understand where he’s coming from.”

“And where’s that?”

“Draco Malfoy has the Dark Mark. He’s been identified as a Death Eater. The people out there don’t know about how he saved you, how he had the chance to make sure you’re dead and didn’t take it. They don’t know that he was given the task to kill Albus Dumbledore, but didn’t follow on that one as well. All they know is that he was a Death Eater. We can’t let Death Eaters walk free without a trial. No one will stand for it. Not even if you backed that decision up yourself.”

For some reason, instead of calming him down, these words just made Harry angrier. “To hell with what everyone thinks,” he said hotly. “These are the same people who allowed Thicknesse and Umbridge create the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, and that wasn’t even a year ago.”

“And a lot of them did fight in the end, on our side!” Arthur was getting just as angry. “I don’t want any of them to walk out without a trial, either. They’re all going to get a fair trial, and if he’s found innocent, he will walk free. And if not, he will be in Azkaban. Personally, I think you’re giving the Malfoy boy too much credit. But he will get a fair trial, and that’s more than they gave...” Arthur’s voice trailed in mid-sentence.

Harry didn’t push the subject further. He didn’t want to fight with Arthur Weasley, a man who had been like a father to him. Instead, they walked in silence until they reached the lifts, where Harry bade him goodbye and went down back to the Atrium, while Arthur went up to his office.

Once at the Atrium, he wished once again he would have brought his cloak. After the fifth person had stopped him to shake his hand, Harry sneaked into a small and almost deserted corridor, looking to get away before the bulk of Ministry employees walked through the gates and saw him.

It turned out to be the wrong corridor to hide in. It could not have been cleaned for ages - there was a sickeningly sweet smell in the air, as if something was rotting. And on the walls, the portraits were gaining dust. Harry looked at them without much curiosity, just to kill the time as Ministry employees walked past in the Atrium, chatting merrily. They were of portraits of old Wizengamot members. Gregory Merchant, 1734-1865. Griselda Fairbanks, 1755-1892. Prospero Sebastian McCallum, 1765-1823. Harry’s heart started pounding - perhaps, could it be... he walked down the corridor, the Ministry and its people all forgotten. And there it was - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, 1881-1997. But the frame was empty. Dumbledore must be back in his portrait at Hogwarts.

“Professor?” he asked softly, hoping his old headmaster would show up. But there was no response. Whether Dumbledore knew he was there, or just preferred snoozing in his beloved school, Harry didn’t know. After a couple more seconds, he turned his back to the empty portrait and left the corridor. Time to go to Azkaban.

Azkaban! The name that made some of the bravest wizards he had known shudder in fear, and that was where Harry was going. Harry had never seen the infamous wizard prison until now, but he still shared that shudder in the spine when the name was mentioned. A place ruled by the Dementors, holding the worst of the wizards - but no, this was no longer the case. The Dementers were gone, having joined Voldemort’s side. And many of the prisoners - or ex-prisoners - had either died in the Battle of Hogwarts, or were in the process of being rounded up now.

But as he was approaching the fortress, standing at the edge of a small island in the middle of the sea, he realised he was wrong. A dark mood fell on him as he saw the towering fortress, no windows above the floor ground. A shudder came over him as he saw the heavy gates, locked not with a key but with spells, and a feeling of utter despair engulfed him. The feeling of Dementors.

Dementors - were they still in Azkaban? After all the pain, after everything that had happened, after their betrayal, and they were still there. It was true, then, that some things never changed.

A tiny guard approached him from the other side of the gate, muttering incantations to open the gate. “Mr. Potter!” He fluttered and grabbed his hand. “I was told you were coming, but I couldn’t quite believe it! It’s such an honour to meet you, I can’t tell you how much...”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, looking around for a sign of Dementors.

“I was told you came to question a prisoner?” the tiny guard asked, and Harry nodded. “Come, then! We’re moving him to a secure room. There will be Dementors there, of course - “

“No,” Harry said firmly, and the guard looked at him in surprise. “What are Dementors doing here, anyway?”

The confusion in the guard’s face became more apparent. “Surely you know they guard the cells of Azkaban, the - “

“I know that’s what they used to do,” Harry interrupted him. “But then they crossed sides and joined Voldemort. Why are they still here?”

“But we have the most dangerous prisoners in the country! Someone must guard them! After all, if we let them...”

Yes, Harry thought angrily, no longer listening to the man. The most dangerous prisoners in the country. An 18-year-old who hasn’t finished his studies and had spent the past two years in perpetual fear and imprisoned in his own house. Did no one actually look at their prisoners?

“ - And at any rate, this is the kind of decision that is made at the highest levels. You will have to ask the Minister.”

“I will,” Harry said, and an awkward silence came between them. Trying to avoid any further awkward moments, the guard ushered Harry into the prison and towards the special interrogation cell they had devised. A grey room, with grey walls, and a Dementor that despite Harry’s insistence was still patrolling outside the door.

And at the centre of the room, sat a lone figure, chained to a chair.

Draco Malfoy was not wearing the expensive robes Harry had grown used to see him wear. Rather, he was wearing striped prisoner uniform in black-and-white. The sleeves of the shirt were short, to reflect the warming weather and the arrival of spring, even though none of the warmth of the sun had ever reached Azkaban or its prisoners. There was no spring here. On Malfoy’s exposed left arm, the ugly tattoo of the skull and the snake was already fading, but still visible, the same tattoo Harry had argued about with so many people slightly more than a year ago. He didn’t feel any triumph now that he had proof of its existence.

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy asked in defiance. He stared at Harry, dark bags under his eyes. He looked just as tired as Harry felt.

“I wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Not trusting your Auror friends to get the whole story?” Malfoy attempted to sneer, but his heart wasn’t in it. His voice seemed to waver mid-sentence and become quiet and exhausted. Harry didn’t need to ask what had brought on the change. Only two days in Azkaban had changed Malfoy, the company of the Dementors getting into his every thought. The change was almost frightening, but not unexpected. Harry knew that Malfoy had many bad memories to think of in here.

“I got some questions to ask that don’t interest them,” Harry answered, and sat down in the chair in front of Malfoy. For a moment, Malfoy was taken aback, but immediately returned to his earlier position in the chair, trying to feign indifference. Harry didn’t comment, but kept his eyes directly on Malfoy. “Back in the manor house,” he said. “You recognised us. Ron, Hermione and me. You knew who we were. I know you did.”

“Yes,” Malfoy shrugged.

“But you didn’t tell your aunt.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. Encouraged by his silence, Harry continued. “Just like on the Astronomy tower. You didn’t kill Dumbledore. You couldn’t.”

The colour seemed to return to Malfoy’s face. Harry, who was used to Malfoy’s pale face, did not realised until now just how pale his face had become. It was like he had no blood left until that very moment, and all of a sudden it all flowed back into his face, all at the same time.

“There’s no need to remind me I’m a coward, Potter,” he spat.

“I don’t think you were being a coward, Malfoy. Your parents were afraid. All they wanted to do was to turn us in and see us murdered by Voldemort.” He ignored Malfoy’s wince. “Then the war would have been over, your side would have won, and only pure blood wizards would have mattered. You can’t tell me you were more afraid of me than of Voldemort,” he said, and couldn’t help but feel a bit of pleasure at seeing Malfoy jumping again at the name. “I think you were less of a coward than you think,” he added, trying to be kind.

Malfoy didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “If I did tell them, I wouldn’t have been here now,” he said bitterly. Harry had nothing to say to that - it was the truth, after all. Had Malfoy not hesitated to identify him, Voldemort would have been summoned and it would have been him, Harry, rather than Voldemort, who would have died.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Malfoy didn’t respond. Harry got up to leave.

His hand was already on the door handle when Malfoy talked again. “Did you tell him the truth?” he asked. “Was Snape really on your side?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “He’s always been in love with my Muggle-born mother.” And curiosity made him turn to look at Malfoy, and he saw something that looked like despair in the grey eyes. He stepped out of the room.

It was that look that remained in Harry’s mind all the way back to the Burrow, and all through that afternoon. It wasn’t just the despair brought up by the Dementors, he thought. Malfoy, he realised, still didn’t know whether he did the right thing. Perhaps even regretted his actions, those same actions Harry had thanked him for.

The others felt the questions within him - when Harry returned to the Burrow, Ron seemed all ready to start a shouting match on the subject, but with one look at Harry’s expression, he remained quiet, and offered his friend tea instead, which Harry accepted gladly. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want to fight. Not with Ron, not now, not over Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t worth it. He just wanted to sit there with his friends, and enjoy the quiet afternoon, passing slowly, not a hint of danger in sight.

The quiet, happy mood changed drastically when Arthur returned home for dinner, with the news that Remus and Tonks were to be buried the next day, after the ceremony at the Ministry. That night was accompanied by a lot less laughter than the previous one, and a lot less banter, as the thought of that funeral and the funeral that was scheduled to the day after loomed over everyone’s head throughout the evening, into the night, and until the next morning.

They didn’t go directly to the funeral that morning. Before, there was the Ministry. Harry, of course, was reluctant to go. His first venture to the Ministry was not the best experience, and he did not cherish the idea of repeating it. But this time, Kingsley insisted: they were re-instating all of the Muggle-born Ministry workers, and it was absolutely essential, he said, that the people who had fought for them show up.

“Please, Harry,” Hermione interfered at this point. “Do this for me.” So he did.

It was a long, long ceremony. Each of the Ministry’s former employees, those who had to run and those who were imprisoned because of their blood status, had gone up to the stage, shook hands with Kingsley, and said a few words.

The highest ranking Muggle-born wizard was Will Jones, who had been in charge of the Improper Use of Magic Office until last August. He had spent the war in Azkaban, sent there by Umbridge and her commission. And when he got up to the stage, he looked like a man who had grown old in a very short period of time - what little left of his hair was grey, he was thin, and in his eyes Harry could see only pain and sorrow.

Will Jones was also the only one who had got on the stage with a photograph.

“I am here, today, for my wife,” he said, showing the picture to the audience, the picture of a beautiful woman laughing. “Anna Jones, who cannot be here today. She did not make it out of Azkaban,” he said, and his voice threatened to break, but then he fixed his eyes at the audience. “And for her I promise this, that no one else will die like her, in Azkaban, innocent. From this day on, no Muggle-born will ever have to hide who they are. From this day on, things will forever be different!”

The room exploded with applause.

Kingsley was right about one thing - Harry’s presence in the ceremony did not go unnoticed, from the many people who queued to shake his hand, to the whispers during the ceremony, and to Will Jones, who looked directly at him for half of his speech. After the ceremony, Mr Jones caught up with Harry. “Mr Potter! Excuse me, Mr Potter!” Breathless, he pushed his way to where Harry was, and grabbed his hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“Mr Potter, I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to thank you personally. For everything you’ve done for us.”

Harry mumbled ‘thanks’, unsure what to say, but it didn’t seem Mr Jones minded. Neither did he want to let Harry go, and it was only after Harry told him he had to go to a funeral that Jones had let go of his hand.

“Of course, of course. But we must meet again soon,” he said his farewell. Harry turned to leave, but failed once again - before he could go to yet another place he didn’t really want to see, he was stopped once more - and this time, not by a wizard.

It was a centaur. He was familiar to Harry - it didn’t take him more than a couple of seconds to recognise the centaur as Bane, one of the centaurs who lived in the Forbidden Forest, one he had encountered several times. The one who was always against wizards, and had never taken any action to save Harry’s life, even when he could.

“Harry Potter,” Bane said now, in his weird sort of centaur greeting - or so Harry assumed.

“Hello,” he answered cautiously. “What brings you here?”

“The wizards promise a new age,” Bane said simply. “We the centaurs are here to see their promise.”

Harry considered this for a moment. “And do you think we’ll deliver?” he asked.

“Mars is under the shadow of Jupiter,” the centaur gave his answer, which was no answer at all. Harry sighed.

“Well, have a good time,” he said and left before the centaur could say another word, and before any other wizard could stop him. He had more important things to do, and didn’t feel like playing the centaurs’ games now, in addition to everything else.

Andromeda Tonks did not organise a big funeral for her daughter and son-in-law, not the funeral of heroes they deserves. But perhaps it was better. The people who stood above the two fresh graves on that Thursday morning did not regard Lupin and Tonks as sacred heroes in their death, just as they did not regard them as outcasts, werewolf and wife in life. They were all friends, the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix.

The cemetery was not a wizard cemetery. The Tonks family had lived in a small town, with a large population of Muggles, and a few, well hidden wizarding families. The cemetery reflected it well - in between many regular, Muggle names, Harry could spot the odd tombstone with a name that did not seem to belong in such a town.

And a couple of rows behind the two new graves, Harry could read another name, engraved on a tombstone that was so new that it did not have time to get dirty in the rain, and understood another reason for Andromeda’s wish to keep this ceremony away from the eyes of the magical public, and away from a wizarding cemetery. Two rows behind the graves of her daughter and son-in-law, Andromeda Tonks, née Black, had buried her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, quietly and alone. She noticed him looking in that direction throughout the funeral and looked at him coldly, tense, looking almost identical to her dead sister. But Harry just nodded, and turned his eyes back to the procession, and she relaxed. He was not going to challenge her for a last act of kindness to her kin, whoever they may be.

The rain poured down hard as Kingsley stepped up to say a few words, then Arthur, then Andromeda, her eyes swollen and red. Harry wanted to say something as well, but when he came to speak, his voice betrayed him.

He made a false start, then a second, and everyone looked at him with understanding in their eyes, as if to say, it’s okay if you don’t say anything. We know what you want to say.

But deep inside, he couldn’t help but feel that they didn’t. Because every time he opened his mouth, he saw, not the living Remus Lupin, with the grey, thinning hair and the pained, lonely look. And not even the soft, calm expression on his face as he was lying there, dead. But rather, that much younger, ghost-like vision he had seen that night in the forest. Those last words no one knew he had spoken.

“Wherever you are,” he said at last, “be at peace.”

He did not know if anyone present would understand. What happened in the forest was unknown to all but him - even Ron and Hermione, who had heard almost everything that had transpired that night, did not hear of what happened to Harry as he was going to face Voldemort. He was not yet ready. But this was the man he had seen before his eyes all through the funeral and even now when Rose, Ted Tonks’s mother came up to say that while she did not know or understand that magical world of her son, her granddaughter, and the people around her, it did not stop her from being proud.

Harry should not have been surprised that even she, the Muggle, knew his name. As he came to give Andromeda his condolences in person, after the ceremony, he was introduced to Rose, who immediately recognised his name. “Dora talked about you,” she informed him. “Said you were their biggest hope.” She gave him a penetrating look, as if finding him somewhat disappointing in real life. “Looks like they didn’t die for nothing.”

“No, Mrs Tonks,” he reassured her. “They didn’t.”

“Andromeda tells me you were named Teddy’s godfather,” she said sternly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, seeing as Teddy is already looking like Dora when she was a baby, Andromeda will probably take care of him most of the time, to get him used to this world of yours and all. But I wanted you to know that when he is with us, you are always welcome, too.”

“Thank you,” he told the old woman.

“And... Mr Potter?” she said. “One last thing. My daughter-in-law has lost this year her husband, daughter, and son-in-law,” she said that quietly, trying to control her own grief. “Take care of her, too. She never opened up much to us. I don’t want her to be alone.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Tonks,” he said in earnest. “I will.”

And then he left with the Weasleys. They had another funeral to take care of.

Fred Weasley’s funeral was nothing like the small, private ceremony for Lupin and Tonks. Arthur, being a Ministry employee, and the known position of the family with the Order of the Phoenix, had brought almost the entire wizarding world to pay their last respects to Fred Weasley - even some of the Gringotts goblins were there, and far at the back, Harry could see a centaur or two. Arthur and Molly had decided to bury their son behind the Burrow, where he will be close to them, and the fields surrounding the big house were so full of people and noise that Harry feared they were bound to be noticed by the Muggles from the village close by.

Here, too, people talked, shared their memories of Fred Weasley and what they thought was the meaning of his death. But while the eulogies at Lupin’s and Tonks’s funeral were short and brought a smile to Harry’s face, the many eulogies given to Fred Weasley failed to catch his attention. After a while, it felt as if most of the speakers didn’t even know Fred, and Harry’s anger rose every time he paid attention and realised that his name was mentioned more often than George’s.

George Weasley was sitting in the first row, looking at the grave unblinking, saying nothing. It was the first time Harry got a good look at him since he had arrived at the Burrow, and he couldn’t help but notice how tired George looked. And how lonely.

He wasn’t surprised then, that George was nowhere to be found after the burial. Leaving Ron, Hermione and Ginny, he sneaked into the house undetected, and climbed the stairs to the twins’ old room. He wasn’t wrong - George was sitting there, going over pages and pages written in Fred’s small, organised handwrite.

“Hey,” Harry said.

George raised his head and gave a weak smile. “Hey,” he mumbled back.

“You’re busy?” Harry asked, and walking into the room, sitting on the bed opposite George.

George shrugged in response. “Not really. Just going through all of these designs, trying to figure out what we should - what I should do first. For the shop.”

“You’re going on with the shop, then?”

“Yeah. Fred would kill me if I let it down now. We worked too hard for this.”

Harry nodded. He was glad, in a way. Fred’s memory will always be alive, as long as the shop would still be there.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” George said suddenly.

“I know,” Harry said automatically.

“No, you stupid - I meant the circus down there,” George said with distaste in his voice, and Harry looked at him in surprise. How did he know - ?

“I saw you, becoming angrier and angrier every time someone started going on about how Fred died for the cause and for you, and then started going on and on about Voldemort, blah blah blah, you know. Who was the last one, Williamson? You looked like you were going to jump him. I don’t blame you. They shouldn’t have been here, anyway, but Dad felt - well, you know. The Ministry and all. I had half a mind to throw some fireworks at them.”

“Or a portable swamp,” Harry suggested.

“Yeah, can you imagine that?” George got all excited. “A swamp appearing in the middle of the rows of chairs. If Fred was - He’d be disappointed with me,” he said morosely. “That his funeral was so respectable.”

“Well, almost everyone’s still around, if you got a dung-bomb or two we could - “ but Harry never got to suggest what they could do with those dung bombs, because a soft tap on the door made them both raise their eyes and see Angelina Johnson.

“George?” she said, her eyes puffy from crying. “Your mother said you’re here.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Harry said and got up.

“Good to see you, Harry,” Angelina told him.

“You too,” he reassured her and left the two alone. They must have had a lot to talk about.

But still, he did not want to go downstairs. The noise and commotion could be heard all the way up, and Harry could tell from the funeral it would only get worse if he went downstairs. The room there was full of people who would be eager - too eager - to meet him, and go through the whole ritual again. It’s an honour, Mr Potter. This is so exciting. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.

Harry couldn’t quite take it. He needed to go somewhere - anywhere that wasn’t crowded, or full of wizards. He thought of the village, Ottery St Catchpole, full of Muggles who had never heard his name or Voldemort’s. He sneaked out through the back door and walked far enough on the path leading towards the village below, but then changed his mind about his destination and turned around on the spot. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going until he got there, but when he did, he couldn’t realise how he didn’t think of it before.

In a way, it was the most natural place in the world to be.

*

Dudley Dursley stood at the door of his parents’ house in Little Whinging and stared at the neighbours’ cat in boredom. It had been only three days since the Dursleys returned to Privet Drive. Their neighbours had all been told well in advance that Vernon Dursley had accepted a temporary position abroad, and the entire family was relocating for an unknown period of time. It had been a lie, of course. They had spent most of the past year in hiding. After all that time cooped up inside, Dudley enjoyed the fresh air, even when the day was uncharacteristically hot for July and the sun was still baking him, this late in the evening.

Right now, he was most of all trying to avoid his parents’ friends and relatives, now that Petunia Dursley had had the chance to re-arrange the house to her complete satisfaction. That is, to make sure any gossip by the neighbours and friends who would see the house would be one of jealousy, not gloating - or worse, pity. Once she was assured of that, she made sure to throw the biggest party she had ever had. Dudley, then, was not allowed to go out with his friends as he did the past couple of nights since coming back, but was expected to stay at home for the party. Frankly, he was going mad with boredom.

He took his eyes away from the cats for a second, finishing up the piece of cake in his hand and looking for something to wipe it on. Failing to find anything usable he reached for his trousers, when a surprisingly familiar voice made him jump.

“Hey, Big D,” Harry was now standing right in front of Dudley, where a second ago only the empty streets and cats could be seen. “Catch.”

A football was thrown at him, and Dudley caught it by instinct, and then proceeded to stare at his cousin for a moment with his mouth slightly open. Deep inside, he never expected to see Harry again. After all, the Dursleys and their nephew had never been on good terms, and with each passing year Harry spent less and less of his summer in Privet Drive, practically saying he couldn’t wait to be rid of his family once and for all. But it wasn’t just Harry’s reappearance on the Dursleys’ doorstep that had shocked Dudley. Harry looked significantly different from the last time they met. He seemed thinner than he’d ever seen him before, his usually messy black hair longer than it had ever been and somehow even more messy than usual, his eyes had black bags underneath, and he had a general air of tiredness radiating from him. It wasn’t very hard to guess why, of course. The last time they saw him, Harry made it quite clear he was in mortal peril, chased by the same man who had murdered his parents. He must have been in hiding himself, on the run from that psychopath until that time the wizards told the Dursleys they were finally safe. And now he was standing there, looking tired but still wearing a small smirk, and Dudley remained with his mouth open, unsure what to say in response. None of the things that came to his mind would work. He seemed unable to think of a single thing he could say to his cousin that didn’t sound terrible to his own ears. So, Harry, I take it the psychopath who was after you is gone. Hi, Harry, how was your year? We were in hiding! Say, did you kill anyone lately?

Eventually, it was Harry who broke the silence. “So, feel like a game of one-on-one?”

“Sure,” Dudley said, clinging to the one part of this encounter he could make sense of, even if the two of them had never done anything together in their lives.

They played for a while in the setting sun, and he soon learned Harry wasn’t very good at football, at least compared to him. He easily blocked most of his cousin’s attacks on his goal post, and scored almost as easily against him. When they stopped for a quick drink from the water fountain and to get rid of the sweat-drenched shirts, throwing them next to Harry’s discarded wand, it occurred to him his cousin might not be playing to win at all.

The early spring sun was now almost gone, but as far as they could tell, it might as well have been high in the sky. The grass was still wet from yesterday’s rain, and the sun’s rays seemed to be reflected from it instead of absorbing the heat. Dudley could have sworn it was radiating it at the two of them. The last sun-rays themselves seemed relentless, determined to bake them until the very last moment. It felt too hot for May, too hot for just a game of football. But neither one of the two teenagers seemed to care: Harry was running without pause all over the grass, trying to score, or - as Dudley later suspected - trying to find a reason not to stop running. Dudley was also playing brutally, taking advantage of his cousin’s complete lack of strategy and using every chance he had to reach the opposite goal.

Eventually, both of them had run out of energy. With the last rays of the sun gone into the horizon, the two collapsed on the grass in exhaustion, breathing heavily.

“You know, you’re rubbish in this game,” Dudley said once he caught his breath, and immediately wanted to kick himself. It was the force of habit, more than anything else - he didn’t really know how to be nice to his cousin. Whenever he tried, he ended up not saying a word.

“Yeah, well, it if was Quidditch, I would have kicked your arse,” Harry replied, but with a touch of humour in his voice. He seemed to realise Dudley didn’t intend to be mean.

“What’s Quidditch?” Dudley asked.

“A bit like basketball. Only not really. And you play it on broomsticks.”

“Broomsticks?”

Harry gestured vaguely at the sky. “In the air.”

“Ah.”

They stared at the darkening sky in silence for a bit longer. Dudley couldn’t help but sneak a glance at his cousin - in addition to the familiar lightning-bolt scar, he seemed to have acquired something nasty and squiggly on his right hand - almost like handwriting, Dudley realised, except that he couldn’t tell what it said. And then, on his neck, something that looked like a white-hot chain was pressed there, or perhaps a burn from a thin line choking him. Harry must have noticed he was looking at the new scar, as he turned away and put his soaked shirt back on. “It’s a...” he started saying, but something must have caught his eye. He stared ahead for such a long time that Dudley was beginning to think he had forgotten all about the sentence. But eventually he said “... Long story. It’s a long story.” Dudley smiled at him, trying to end the awkward moment, and Harry got up on his feet.

“Time to go. It was nice seeing you, Dudley.”

“Wait,” Dudley said, getting to his feet as well, and not quite sure what he wanted to say. Harry looked at him for a moment, expecting him to explain, and Dudley eventually settled for “Mum and Dad are having a party, there’s some pretty good cake.”

Harry still didn’t say anything, and it suddenly crossed Dudley’s mind that perhaps, after all these years, he wasn’t quite sure he was understanding Dudley correctly. “Want to drop by? Have a piece? It’s a really good cake,” Dudley clarified, and Harry smirked.

“Yeah, I don’t think Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be very happy to see me eating their cake,” he said.

“Yeah. I know. All the more reason to come,” Dudley answered, and Harry’s smirk turned into a full blown laughter. Dudley joined him.

“Better not, I guess,” he said when the laughter died down. “But thanks for the offer.” He picked up his wand and his bag.

“Where are you staying now?” Dudley asked.

“Here and there...”

“Oh,” Dudley said in response to the non-committal response. “How far is it, I mean, this time of day you’re bound to be stuck in traffic somewhere,” he said awkwardly, and Harry laughed again.

“Wizard, remember?”

“Right. It probably takes you people five minutes.”

“More like five seconds,” Harry said. “Watch this.” He then turned on the spot, and disappeared. Dudley stared for a while in amazement at the place where his cousin had been standing not a moment ago, and shook his head in laughter. He then put on up his own shirt, and kicked the football all the way home, feeling surprisingly lighthearted.

Back in the Burrow, Harry found Hermione. “Let’s go first thing tomorrow morning,” he said, and she nodded in understanding.


	3. Australia

Australia turned out to be further away than either Hermione or Harry had ever imagined it’d be. At first, there were the delays. Molly Weasley was not thrilled to hear that they’d be leaving so soon, even after Ron made it clear that for this journey, he won’t be joining them. Ron himself was very unhappy with the idea, but he knew that leaving his family so soon would be impractical, almost as impractical as asking Hermione to wait. But his sulking wasn’t as hard to deal with as Ginny’s reaction. She didn’t sulk, she wasn’t angry, but just looked at Harry with a somewhat disappointed expression and sighed. “Are we ever going to have more than three days together?” she asked, and only then did Harry realise how unreliable he had been with her - they hardly saw each other for that entire year, and times had been challenging for her as well, even if she didn’t look for Horcruxes in snowy forests. And now, with her brother dead, he was going again, instead of staying and supporting her.

“I promise you,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll come back as soon as I can. And this time I’ll stay.”

She nodded, and then kissed him deeply. “You better,” she said and smiled a mischievous smile that made Harry ask Hermione in a whisper, “How long did you say this was going to take, again?”

Then there was another run-in with Kingsley. He came to dinner with the Weasleys the night before Harry and Hermione left, and he was very unhappy with the news.

“I hoped you’d come to the memorial service,” he said, sounding just as disappointed as Ginny was earlier.

“Memorial service?” Harry asked in curiosity while taking a second helping of Mrs Weasley’s wonderful pea soup.

“The Ministry is having a memorial service after the last funerals take place, in a couple of days. When everything is still fresh. Help people put this behind us.”

Another opportunity for public display, another event where everyone would talk about Harry as if he was the only one who had made sacrifices and the only one who suffered. At that moment Harry was grateful that Hermione asked him to accompany her.

“I’m sorry, Kingsley, we can’t ask Hermione to wait any longer to look for her parents.”

“The Ministry could do with your presence there, Harry. Especially as now you’re becoming a Ministry employee. We thought we’d announce it after the ceremony.”

 _Really_ grateful to Hermione.

“I’m sorry, Kingsley. It’s just not possible.”

“I see,” Kingsley said. “Well, I won’t push the subject any further. As long as you know that we really are happy at the Ministry that you’re joining us. Your input means a great deal to us there, Harry.”

“You care about what I have to say?” Harry asked doubtfully.

“It’s not just your name that we want, Harry. You have shown yourself to have determination, and consideration, and understanding that few wizards - your age or older - have. You were put in terrible ordeals, and you performed magnificently. We really do care about your advice.”

“Alright then, here’s one piece of advice from me. Get the Dementors out of Azkaban.”

The table, that had gone slightly quieter when the discussion between Kingsley and Harry began, turned dead silent with that statement. Arthur was looking at Kinglsey with interest, while Ron was rolling his eyes at Harry.

When Kingsley spoke, he spoke very calmly, very slowly, and very carefully, his deep voice booming around the room. “I don’t disagree with you, Harry.”

“But?” Harry asked immediately, and for a moment, Kingsley looked like a person who was looking for the right answer.

“But,” he said finally, deliberately, “I have many battles to fight. What you need to understand is that there are worse things going on right now than the Dementors of Azkaban. And that is partially the reason I want you to be more visible at the Ministry.”

“It would be easier to get things done if you can use my name?” Harry asked quietly.

“Yes. Already the Ministry is full of people who are looking for their own personal gain. But no one is going to be on one side when you’re on the other.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, and the discussion moved to safer, better subjects.

Harry did think about it, all through that night. In a way, he felt worse than he did only a few days ago, when he put his head in the pensieve and learned just how he had been used by Dumbledore. Then, he allowed himself to be used. Out of his own free will he had agreed to finish Dumbledore’s plan, to save the lives of everyone he had ever known, everyone he cared about. And now, here was Kingsley, asking him to allow himself to be used again. But this time, there would be no end in the horizon, no single bad man to defeat so that everything could be decent and good again.

But he still had time to decide, so he turned around and tried to think of other things, but the image of Dumbledore as he had last seen him was planted deep in his mind, and he got almost no sleep until the morning.

The next day he said nothing of that to Hermione. They left early, because they had a lot of ground to cover, and were too sleepy to have any sort of coherent conversation, let along about serious issues. Hermione told Harry the night before she had half a mind to get them plane tickets, as it apparently was a much faster way to travel. They couldn’t Apparate the entire distance at one go - the laws of magic made it impossible. Instead, they would have to cover the distance in a series of small jumps, jumps that would only get them to Australia after a couple of days. Before that, Hermione said in a slightly exasperated tone, they would get to see all of Europe and large portions of Asia, too.

And so it happened, that after a whole day of Apparating and Disapparating from one city to the other, from one country to the other, after a glimpse of Amsterdam, a five-minute tour of Berlin, after lunch at Warsaw and a growing view of snow and ice through the colder parts of Russia and Kazakhstan, they had found themselves in the middle of the night at a city called Ürümqi, technically in China but looking very little like any picture of any book that Hermione or Harry had ever read. In fact, it looked much more like Russia, or the little they had seen of Kazakhstan only a short while ago. The only hint they had of being in China was the Chinese script, accompanying the Cyrillic and Arabic ones.

Neither of which, of course, either of them could read.

After an hour of useless efforts to communicate, Harry was in half a mind to continue Apparating throughout the night instead of trying to explain to the locals that they were after a room, but Hermione refused to give up. “I’m tired,” she said, “I’m stinking, I’m hungry, I need a bath, and the war is over so there really isn’t any excuse to feel any of this.”

She had a point, of course. Rare were the occasions that Hermione Granger did not have a point. But so far, her efforts were showing no progress, and he was becoming more and more restless as his hunger and tiredness grew. He had already suggested a couple of times that they Apparated again and tried their luck elsewhere, but if the first time Hermione stopped to explain to him why they should stay there, the second time had only earned him an impatient look, after which Hermione immediately returned to try and find someone - anyone - who spoke English at that time of night.

The night soon became morning. There was still no sign of the sun, but the houses around them started filling with light, and people started exiting their houses.

Hermione’s Muggle watch still said 10 a.m., Harry confirmed through a stolen glance at her wrists as she was moving her hands animatedly in the air, trying to make the sleep-deprived hotel clerk understand her words and getting a mixture of Uyghur and broken Russian and Chinese in return. But right now Harry didn’t care for the time differences or for the fact it was morning. All he wanted was a bed, and preferably before sunrise.

And then their luck changed - or rather, Harry’s luck. They had tried again in a small hotel, where Hermione repeated the ritual of battling sleepy night clerks who didn’t speak a word of English. Harry was standing behind her, looking in boredom at the room around them. Just then, the lift opened, and a small man emerged. He wasn’t dressed like the others - instead of the clothes the Muggles wore here, he had a long red robe with a Chinese pattern of dragons and phoenixes, and a small, weird hat. And on his face was a huge moustache, black but with a touch of white.

The man didn’t pay them much attention. They were just a couple of badly lost tourists. He gave Hermione a quick look, then another at Harry, and kept on walking, folding the paper in his hand. All of a sudden he stopped, blinked, and turned to look at Harry again.

“Harry Potter,” he said, surprised.

Even Hermione stopped waving her hands and stared at the man.

“Yes,” Harry said, and the man walked towards him and offered his hand. Harry took it tentatively, and the man started shaking it, completely excited. His English wasn’t much better than the clerk’s - Harry could understand “great victory” and “luck” and a couple of other words, but nothing tangible.

But at last came the salvation. “You look for room?” the man asked, and as Harry nodded in amazement, the man walked to the clerk and barked in quick Mandarin at him. Within minutes, they had a key to one of the hotel’s rooms in their hands - “Room on me! Harry Potter!” was the best they could get from their unexpected saviour - and were up in the lift and stepping into the room.

A quick bath, a quick snack, and by the time Hermione finished drying her hair and lying on her side of the bed, Harry was already deep into sleep on his.

**-X-**

“You know, we really don’t learn enough languages at Hogwarts,” was the first thing Harry heard when he woke up.

His mumbled “What?” was the only reaction he managed to muster. Where was he - ah. Soft bed, unknown room, and a sun that was already past its height and starting its long journey down to the other side of the Earth - they were Somewhere On The Way To Australia.

“I’ve been thinking. This whole mess could have been avoided had we studied languages at Hogwarts. I should talk to McGonagall about it.”

“Right. Mind you, we do spend a lot of time studying magic, so I’m not surprised its not the highest priority,” he answered, then sat up and rubbed his eyes before putting on his glasses. Had he imagined it, or had Hermione moved her gaze quickly from him towards the radio in her hand? He must have imagined it, he figured, as she was already tapping on the thing.

“I’m trying to get a signal from back home,” she explained.

“What time is it over there?” Harry said, stifling a yawn.

“Should be around 10,” she said.

“We slept long.”

“ _You_ slept long,” she threw him a look and tapped the radio again.

“I slept long,” Harry amended his latest statement.

“Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. It’s not like you had much sleep in the past week or so.”

“Actually, a week ago we were still in Shell Cottage - “ No, that can’t be right, Harry thought to himself. That was more than a week ago. It had to be.

It looked like a different lifetime. A week ago - or maybe slightly longer, he was no longer sure - they were still scared, fighting for their lives, sure they were going to die. And then he really thought he was going to die.

And now here they were in Ürümqi, China, and Hermione, having given up on fiddling with the radio, handed him some sort of dumpling as breakfast. Or lunch. It wasn’t much after the huge dinners at the Burrow, but Harry wasn’t going to complain. It was much better than anything he had had to eat most of that previous year.

“How are you feeling?” she asked once he finished his dumpling.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he looked at her, confused.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he replied and got up to wash his teeth. He had a feeling Hermione was still looking at him strangely.

But whatever went through Hermione’s mind that morning, it disappeared soon enough. They had checked out of the hotel - “No money, already pay,” the day-clerk, who had some grasp of English, told them, but Harry still wasn’t sure he understood their request to give their thanks to the generous wizard - and off they went. China, China, and more China, they Apparated due south until they had left China behind, and found themselves in Vietnam, then the Philippines, and finally Indonesia, Papua New Guinea - and Australia.

Another three Apparitions or so - by now, the both of them were tired, and hungry, even if it was day all around them. Hermione was beginning to worry that they would make a mistake in their Apparition and refused to make it to Sydney in one go, so the journey took even longer. But finally, they Apparated one last time, and were there. Sydney, Australia.

Now all they had to do was find two people between four million, and all they had to go on were names. Wendell and Monica Wilkins, a couple of British dentists who had moved to Australia after a lifelong ambition to do so, that was all they had.

“I suppose I could look in the phone directory,” Hermione said quietly, as the looked at the park from the Liverpool St. Monorail Station.

“Tomorrow,” Harry answered. “We’ve had enough for today.”

“But - “

“You’ll get to see them, Hermione,” he touched her hand ever so lightly with his. “One more day. After all this time, what’s one more day?”

“Yeah,” she said, doubtful, slightly disappointed, but grateful at the same time. She needed sleep as much as he did.

And yet, neither of them got much sleep that night. As they were walking along, looking for a place to stay - “I have Australian dollars, how much do you think they’ll want?” Hermione fretted - something else caught Harry’s eye. In a newsstand in the corner of the street, one that none of the Muggles seemed to notice, the pictures on the papers were moving.

“Wizard newspapers!” he called, and rushed towards the stand. The wizard who owned the stand eyed him, first in confusion, then in excitement. Once again, he was recognised. But that didn’t matter at the moment, because on the first page of the _Sydney Prophet_ were pictures from the memorial service Kingsley had wanted him to attend, pictures of mayhem. _Death Eaters strike again in London_ , said the headline in huge letters, and Harry snatched the paper.

“That’d be three Knuts,” said the owner, but Harry paid him no attention, and quickly scanned the article, Hermione reading behind his shoulder in similar dismay.

Three dead, dozen wounded and hospitalised at St Mungo’s. A dozen or so more with minor injuries, already sent to their homes. One Death Eater dead, one apprehended. A third managed to escape. And an unknown number of Death Eaters are still at large all over Britain. The British wizarding world in panic, and no one knows where is the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived, The Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter. The Ministry denies rumours of his death in the attack, claiming he couldn’t make it to the ceremony in the first place; but the _Sydney Prophet_ has heard from a reliable source in the Ministry that Harry Potter was dead.

At that, Harry snorted. “They’re just as reliable as the Prophet at home,” he said to Hermione, but her face was pale as she grabbed the paper.

“Hey! Potter! Three Knuts for the paper! You’re not entitled to free newspapers yet!” the owner shouted at them. Harry fished a couple of coins from his pocket and handed them to the vendor, not realising he’d just given him two Galleons.

“They’re alright,” he focused again on Hermione, reading her worried face correctly. “Ron’s alright. Ginny’s alright. Everyone is alright. It wasn’t them.”

“How can you know?” she demanded.

“I know. They’re alright.” He didn’t know, of course. He had no way of knowing. But he thought it would be impossible if, after all they’d been through, they did not survive. He refused to even consider the thought.

“Oh, Harry,” she said and hugged him. He hugged her back. “I thought it was over,” she whispered. He didn’t quite know what to say.

“It is over, Hermione,” he whispered back. “This doesn’t mean anything. It’s over. Really.”

She took a couple more seconds to calm down. Then she sniffled, wiped the tears from her face, and looked at him, embarrassed. “You’re right,” she said and sniffled again. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. It’s over.”

“You’re just tired,” he told her. “C’mon, let’s find a place to stay for the night. Get some sleep. And tomorrow we’ll find your parents. And then we’ll go back home, and you’ll get to see Ron again and see that he’s alright.” And I’ll see Ginny. Who’s fine. She has to be fine. She can’t be - she’s fine. He pushed his own fears out of his mind and looked at Hermione, determined and assured. He smiled at her, and eventually she had calmed down and smiled back at him, and they went to find a place to stay.

But he didn’t sleep much. In his own mind, he imagined Ginny hurt, or dead, when no one saw it coming, when no one expected. All the wizards were certain they were finally safe.

Hermione, next to him, was completely silent. She didn’t move on her side of the bed at all, not since she got in and they said goodnight. But he had no doubt that she was lying there, fully awake, thinking of Ron, dead or dying or injured. Just as he was. Ginny and Ron.

“Harry?” she whispered in the dark.

“Yeah.”

“Were you dead? Did Voldemort... did he kill you?”

Harry thought for a moment about King’s Cross, or a place that looked a lot like King’s Cross, but wasn’t. A place he hadn’t told Hermione about. A place he wasn’t sure he could. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

She didn’t reply. Harry waited for her to say something, but she remained silent, and his mind drifted, and before he realised it his eyes were closing, closed, and he was dreaming of Ginny.

It wasn’t a dream of Ginny that woke him up, though. It was a different dream. He was walking into a forest, and it was dark. He was walking into a forest, and he didn’t have his wand in his hand. He was walking into a forest, and a snake-like face looked at him, and smiling, and Harry woke up.

Hermione was asleep, her breath regular but her body tight and curled into a ball, her hand clutching something - her wand. She didn’t let go of it, not even in her sleep. Harry looked guiltily at his own wand, left at his bed stand, glanced at the clock - 4 a.m., and looked out the window. Outside, the sky was dark, and the street lights stood lonely, shining on the empty roads. In front of them, the docks were abandoned, apart from some ships that moved slowly in the quiet water. Sydney was sleeping. Hermione was sleeping. Far away, half the world away, the Weasleys were still awake, and so was Harry, right here, wishing he was there.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Hermione asked, and Harry jumped - she was awake after all.

“Don’t do that!” His heartbeat slowly returned to normal, and he caught his breath. He turned from the window to look at her and noticed she was still clutching her wand. But just as he looked at it, she put her wand down.

She was no longer lying curled in the bed, but instead sat on it, legs drawn to her chest. Her bushy hair was mostly freed of its plait, making her look like a half-tamed lion. She rubbed her eyes, and when she took her hands off her eyes, he could see they were slightly puffy.

“You were miles away,” she smiled.

“At the Burrow,” he agreed.

“She’s fine,” she told him in a stern voice, reassuring him just as he reassured her the day before. “And so is Ron. Everyone is fine. Like you said.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you said so,” she smiled, and he wasn’t sure he was happy with this answer, but let it slide.

“It’ll be sunrise soon,” he said instead.

“No, it won’t. It’s the Southern hemisphere.” He gave her a blank look, and her voice became stern again, and so much like it did every time he failed to remember something Professor Binns said in class, or something that was written in _Hogwarts: A History_. “Honestly, Harry, don’t you read anything but spellbooks? It’s winter in Australia now. Didn’t you feel how cold it was outside?”

“It wasn’t that cold...”

“It was cold for Australia,” she said, and he laughed. He could see her in the Hogwarts library, looking for books about wizards in Australia.

She laughed, too - perhaps sharing the same mental image.

“I think I should talk to Professor McGonagall when we’re back,” she said, and he completed the sentence - “Hogwarts needs more general studies?”

“Yes! We can’t go on blundering about. Or not knowing anything about Muggles. Or about the world! This doesn’t make any sense, honestly, I think - “

“ - that the kids in Hogwarts have enough on their minds as it is,” Harry pointed out.

“Nah, that was just the three of us. Everyone else had enough free time and were mainly worried about exams,” she said, and they both laughed again.

“Go back to sleep,” he said softly. “You want to be fresh in the morning, to find your parents.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“I think I’ll stay up a little longer,” he said, looking again outside the window. “Don’t worry, nothing will happen.”

“I know,” she said sleepily, already back inside the blankets. “You’re here.”

He turned to look at her, confused, but she was already asleep. He then looked back through the window, sitting in front of it for a bit longer and staring into the ocean, and thought of Ginny’s smile, her red hair and perfume. The lights of the pier sparkled back from the water, and reminded him of Ginny’s eyes.

And everything was peaceful.

He only realised he had fallen asleep again when he woke up, his neck hurting and his back stiff, several hours later. It was 8 a.m. - the sun was up, the city awake, and he and Hermione had things to do. The sooner they found her parents, the sooner they’d find their way back home. The sooner he’d know the Weasleys were alright.

Hermione didn’t need more than a touch to wake her up, and soon they were both dressed, fed, and down in the lobby, looking at the phone directory.

“Check for Wilkins, will you?” she asked him as she was going through the dentist adverts, making impatient sounds. Wilkins, Barry. Wilkins, James and Amy. Wilkins, Peter Gregory and Tamara. Wilkins, William and Robert.

“Are you sure they’re in Sydney?” he asked her.

“Yes. I made sure to put it into their heads. So I could find them, you see. That’s where they wanted to go.”

He closed the phonebook. “They’re not listed, then. Must have a private number”. Or the spell had gone wrong and they don’t called themselves Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Or they’re not in Sydney. Or in Australia.

Better to think they were just not listed.

“Well, I got something here in the dentist adverts. Roberts, Avery & Wilkins, Dental services.”

“Looks like we’re going to the dentist, then,” Harry mumbled. He really hoped this was the right Wilkins.

The clinic wasn’t far from them, so they decided to walk. They didn’t have too much time to talk on their journey to Australia - between one Apparition and another, they were both nervous and tired, and had mainly remained silent. Harry wondered if this was the reason Hermione decided they go by the much more complicated and time consuming Apparition rather than take a Muggle airplane - so that they wouldn’t have to talk. Or maybe it was like she said, and she didn’t want to wait a whole week before there were seats available on a flight. But now, when they were walking together towards the clinic, after a good night’s sleep and good food, they were talking again. They were talking about nothing in particular - Hermione was telling him she had decided to go back to Hogwarts and finish school - “I have to get my N.E.W.T.s, Harry! How could I find a job with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement without them? Besides, it’s really important, to finish school!” - and ignoring him when he told her that after the year they just had, no job will be closed before her. Harry, in turn, told her that he thought about going back to Grimmauld Place, as to not burden the Weasleys more than he already did - “I can’t very well live there in someone else’s room, can I?”. She didn’t mention Ron; he didn’t mention Ginny. He said nothing about his meeting with Draco, about thinking he should testify in his trial; she said nothing about the Death Eaters still at large. Apart from Harry’s little comment about the year they had gone through, neither of them mentioned battles, of Voldemort, or the forest. Even Hermione’s strange comment from the morning went without a single mention by Harry. They were two teenagers, walking in the cool winter morning in Sydney, without a care in the world.

It wasn’t until they were almost at the door of the clinic that Hermione started fretting. “What if it’s not him?” she asked. “What if it’s the wrong W Wilkins?”

“Then we search again,” he reassured her. “They’re not lost, Hermione. We’ll find them.” He wasn’t half as assured of that as he pretended to be, but Hermione didn’t need his doubts right now. “Come on,” he gently pushed her towards the door. “Let’s go in.”

She swallowed, and opened the door. He followed her in.

In front of the door, behind the reception table, sat a girl with spiky blue hair, chewing gum and reading a magazine. She seemed completely uninterested in the two people who had just walked in - in fact, she didn’t seem to realise they had walked in at all.

“Excuse me,” Hermione started, but the girl stayed glued to her magazine. “Excuse me,” Hermione tried again, unable to put the impatience out of her voice. “We need to see Dr. Wilkins.”

“D’ya have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

“Yes,” Hermione answered immediately.

“What’s your name?”

“My name?” Hermione stopped dead. She hadn’t thought of that.

“Your name. Y’know, so I could check and see when you’re supposed to be.”

“Oh, my appointment is in 10 minutes.”

The receptionist finally put down her magazine. Unfortunately, that was not a good sign. “Dr. Wilkins doesn’t accept patients before 10 a.m.,” she said.

“It was an emergency,” Hermione immediately answered. “I - I - I broke my tooth. And it hurts! I called him yesterday,” she added.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well I did,” Hermione insisted, and the receptionist did what receptionists do everywhere - shrugged and went back to her magazine.

“Then go wait by his room,” she said without giving the two a second glance. Hermione sighed in relief and started walking towards the treatment rooms, Harry following her closely.

They sat there waiting for about a quarter of an hour. Hermione was beyond conversation, just paced back and forth next to the door, then sat down for a while, fretting, then started pacing again. Harry knew there was no point in talking sense into her - he had seen her behave like that before exams, when she knew she was as prepared as she’d ever be. He had seen her like that before they went into Gringotts. She’d be nervous until she sees W Wilkins and confirms his identity, one way or the other.

Or until she heard his voice.

“There’s that girl waiting for you, Wendell,” they heard the receptionist’s voice across the hall.

“What girl?” someone answered back, and Hermione jumped - a huge smile on her face. She hugged Harry in relief.

“That girl with the broken tooth, she said she talked to you,” the receptionist said from the other side of the corridor, but it didn’t matter anymore. In two minutes, Hermione’s father would walk into the room, and Wendell Wilkins would cease to exist.

“What girl with a broken...” he mumbled as he walked out of the reception and into the corridor. “Excuse me,” he turned angrily to Hermione. “Who are you?”

Hermione pulled out her wand. Mr Granger pulled back, then looked at her, confused - and then something in his eyes had cleared.

“Hermione!” he called out, and hugged her, and she hugged him back.

Harry looked at the happy reunion from his place on the chair, and couldn’t help but smile. Some things really did have a happy ending.

“Hermione,” Mr Granger said again. “What - how - what’s happened? Why am I - oh,” at last, realisation dawned on him, and he let go of his daughter, looking at her with a worried face. “You’re alright,” he said. “Heavens, you’re alright,” and once again he pulled her into a hug.

“I’m fine,” she was laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m fine, we’re all fine, it’s okay, everything’s brilliant!”

“Your mother!” Mr Granger pulled out of the hug again all of a sudden. “We need to find her, we need to tell her - you need to undo whatever it is you did, young lady! I’ll have you know that that was - “

“ - I had to do it, Dad,” she said, and he nodded.

“But we need to find your mother. Come on, let’s go! What are you waiting for?” He grabbed his coat and rushed to the door.

“Are you going out?” the receptionist asked in a bored voice as the three of them went to the exit.

“Roxanne! Cancel my appointments for today! Actually, cancel all of them! For ever! I quit!” he rushed through the door and into the street, Hermione and Harry almost running to catch up with him.

“Jack would love that,” said Roxanne the Receptionist, and turned back to her magazine. She wasn’t paid to make phone calls before 10 a.m., anyway.

**-X-**

The next couple of hours went past truly quickly. These were happy moments, plain and simple. No bittersweet endings, no death, no lost friends. After Mr Granger got his memory back, they all rushed into his car and to his home, where his wife, who until that moment was certain her name was Monica Wilkins, got the same treatment - and the same reunion had repeated itself. Hugs and kisses and tears and laughter, the Grangers were once again a family, and Hermione could calm her parents down and explain time and again that the danger was over and all was safe. After a while, she introduced Harry. He could see from her parents’ eyes that the name was familiar to them - how much had Hermione told them, he did not know. Not everything, not by far, he knew. She didn’t want her parents to be frightened of the world she belonged to, would never risk them refusing to allow her to go back to Hogwarts. But it was impossible to hide the war from them, and so they heard something - and heard of Harry Potter.

He didn’t mind, though. These people only cared that they got their daughter back, and their lives back, and didn’t care about The Boy Who Lived or terrible Dark Lords. These people bought him dinner in a fancy Vietnamese restaurant because he was a friend of Hermione’s, and when they had ordered plane tickets, all they cared about was that their daughter would sit between them, so that they could spend as much time with her as possible in the long flight back home. Harry didn’t mind any of this. He was happy not to be the centre of attention, almost as happy as he was to see Hermione’s reunion with her parents.

Only once did they really pay attention to him. When Mr and Mrs Granger had heard that Harry was sharing a hotel room with Hermione, they stopped for a moment, and looked at the both of them.

“Is there something you want to tell us, sweetheart?” Hermione’s mum said in a strange voice, but still it took several seconds before either Harry or Hermione realised what they were asking.

“Oh, no,” Hermione said, at the same time as Harry offered his own, “No - no, it’s not that.”

“It was cheaper that way,” Hermione explained to her parents. “Besides, I - “

“It’s Ron you’ll want to meet,” Harry joined in with the explanations. “Ron Weasley. He’s the guy you - he’s the one you want to meet.”

“Oh,” Harry wasn’t quite sure whether he should be amused at the obvious relief in the Grangers’ face, or perhaps hurt.

“Ron - we’ve met his parents, haven’t we?” Hermione’s mum asked, and Hermione nodded.

“A long time ago. Yes.”

“Yeah, I remember. There was that fight in the bookshop...” Mrs Granger mused, and Harry raised his eyebrow at Hermione, but she didn’t notice. She was, all of a sudden, nervous again.

“They’re going to love him,” Harry whispered, but it didn’t stop her from fretting around all through dinner.

The rest of their time in Australia was a proper holiday. There was still no word from either of the Weasleys - “Oh, why can’t they get a phone!” Hermione said angrily at one point, when the topic of Ron came up again in the conversation - but a day later, when the names of the wounded and dead were published in the _Sydney Prophet_ , both could relax, as neither of the names belonged to people they knew. Instead, they became tourists, enjoying their times in chilly Sydney and seeing the sights.

It was not all perfect, of course. Even Hermione’s parents could see how Harry was becoming more distracted the closer they got to the flight back home. He was eating less, and sleeping more, and sometimes wanted to be on his own, and if Hermione told her parents how he would wake up at night, quiet but sweating and his heart racing in his chest, they said nothing, only watched him in silence.

“It would get better once he gets back home,” he caught a whispered conversation one night. “He just needs to relax. From your stories, it sounds like you three all went through a terrible ordeal, sweetheart.”

They were shocked, of course, the first time they heard their story. “Tell us everything,” they had asked their daughter, and one night, in the house that was still theirs, Hermione sat down and told her parents all about the war and their mission, with Harry sitting besides her, but offering no information. She told them of Voldemort and his beliefs, and didn’t stop even when her parents’ faces became horrified and angry and hurt. She told them about the mission, left to them by Dumbledore. She told them about the wedding in the Burrow, then of Grimmauld place and breaking into the Ministry; about the Forest of Dean and Godric’s Hollow; about Gringotts and the dragon - Harry wasn’t quite sure whether her parents were more shocked at their ridiculous actions or at the existence of dragons, but either way, they were so shocked they could not say a word. And then she told them about Hogwarts. But when she came to the forest, she became quiet, more confused.

“And then Voldemort tried to kill Harry again, in the forest, but he couldn’t,” she concluded. “He couldn’t do it. It didn’t work. Harry survived again.” She didn’t know why, not for sure. Harry still didn’t talk about the forest. He was sure Hermione was clever enough to figure out most of it on her own, and the rest he didn’t feel like sharing. At least, not yet. But there was something in her voice when she told them how Voldemort had failed that confused him - the same thing he had heard in her voice in their first night in Sydney.

She didn’t sound like Hermione when she was telling that part of the story, he realised. She didn’t sound like someone who had known him for seven years, like someone who had been one of his closest friends for all that time. She didn’t sound like the person who went through all those things with him. When Hermione told the story of how Harry survived in the forest yet again, of how he escaped death by the hands that had killed so many others, she sounded like a person who didn’t know him at all. It was the voice of the bystander, telling the legend. And Harry had a feeling that even if he did share what had happened that night in the forest, it would do nothing to change that. Aberforth Dumbledore’s words came to his mind, about the legend around him, but that only made him uncomfortable. So he just excused himself early, and went to bed, where he dreamed of a forest and a snake-like face and woke up in the middle of the night, covered with sweat.

There was no one happier than him the next day, when they drove to the airport and got on the plane, and were on their way back home. His last adventure was finally over, he thought. Time to start living the normal life.

Whatever the hell that meant.


	4. Trials and Tribulations

These were the summer holidays as they had never been before. It wasn’t just the freedom Harry and Ron enjoyed, with nothing to do until they started their Auror training in September, or even the partial one for Hermione and Ginny who, while going back to Hogwarts, were not given any serious work for the summer holidays, considering the way the year had ended.

No, it wasn’t merely the freedom of summer - everywhere in the wizarding world, people were happy as they hadn’t been for a long, long time. It was real, absolute freedom, the freedom from Voldemort.

Everyone reacted differently to that freedom. Some people got married - Harry and the Weasleys found themselves invited to 4 weddings within the month of June alone, and July had proved so far to be just as bad. Some people spent their time trying to rebuild the exact same world that had been threatened only a short while ago - none of the Weasleys had seen much of Charlie, who had had temporarily given up dragons and instead spent almost all of his time helping rebuilding Hogwarts, and Fleur was starting to complain about the amount of time Bill dedicated to the reconstruction of Gringotts together with the Goblins.

And some people changed some of their most basic habits. Mrs Weasley was one of them, as one day Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny walked into the Weasley kitchen and saw a telephone.

“Dad’s gone bonkers again,” Ron declared, while at the same time eyed the thing in curiosity. He had seen a telephone only once in his life - when he tried to call Harry during the summer holidays, long ago, and failed miserably.

“It’s not your Dad,” Molly said, going red. The four stared at her for a moment.

“How come we got a telephone?!” Ron demanded.

“Well, it’s much easier to contact the Grangers that way,” Molly said. Ron still shook his head in amazement, but for the rest, it seemed natural. Mr and Mrs Granger came around for dinner quite often lately. They wanted to learn more of Hermione’s world, they said, and especially wanted to learn more of Ron and his family.

The dinners were first awkward, with Mr and Mrs Granger mainly looking confused, Molly mainly looking uncomfortable, and Arthur discovering a new exciting passion - dentistry. The ice was finally broken in an early July dinner, when Mr Granger told the story of how he got bitten by a 10-year-old kid once.

“It ended up with me having to get six stitches,” he concluded his story.

“Really? And did they work?” Arthur asked, excited. “I tried stitches once, but they didn’t work.”

Mr Granger looked at him in confusion. “Was there a particular reason they didn’t work? Wizards don’t have different - different physiology, do you? I mean,” he looked worried at his daughter, “you’re still...”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “We’re just as human, Dad. Arthur’s stitches didn’t work because he was bitten by a magical animal.”

“I see,” said Mr Granger, obviously relieved. “Do you work with many animals, Arthur?”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to stare at Mr Granger in confusion. “I don’t work with animals at all,” he said. “I work in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office. The snake was... not a part of my job,” he finished awkwardly.

“Although you could claim that turning a snake into a Horcrux is a form of misuse,” Harry mused loudly without thinking.

The entire table stared at him in silence.

It was George, of all people, who broke the silence - George, who was mostly quiet and withdrawn these days. “‘I’m sorry, Mr Voldemort’,” he said in an incredibly accurate imitation of his father, “‘but I have a warrant for your arrest, as it seems you have ignored the Ministry’s policy regarding the misuse of Muggle Artefacts and have not responded to any of our previous communications’.”

“Breaking Ministry regulation number 1153 dash 17,” Ginny added.

“You could also get him for cruelty to animals I suppose, although I imagine that’d be Perkins’s job,” Ron suggested. The idea of the small, frail and perpetually confused Perkins arresting Voldemort on a minor technicality had transformed the air in the room. At that moment, anyone around the table who had ever met Perkins burst into laughter. Even Hermione’s parents gave a small nervous chuckle, despite not knowing Perkins - they had heard just enough about Voldemort to realise how ridiculous the idea was, even without knowing the people involved.

But that laughter had managed to break the invisible barrier between Muggles and wizards. From that moment, the Grangers had become a part of the extended Weasley family, and in almost no time at all, Molly Weasley found herself in need of a telephone,to give the Grangers the recipe for her wonderful pie, or to suggest another dinner, or just to talk - and after twenty-odd years of having mainly dentist friends, Mr and Mrs Granger had discovered they enjoyed talking about things other than people’s teeth every once in a while, especially when these things were as strange as the Ministry of Magic, magical animals, or Quidditch.

The Grangers even tried inviting the entire Weasley family to dinner at their house once, but that proved more of a disaster than a success. Unlike Arthur’s previous - and disastrous - attempts to reach a Muggle home, this time everyone could Apparate into the Granger house, so the evening started on a relatively positive note. Yet it still gave way to utter mayhem very early on, as the Grangers didn’t realise that one of the ways Molly Weasley had always found it easy to make dinners for so many people was her ability to use magic. The Granger house was too small, and even stretching to the garden, there was almost no room for anyone. Molly brought her food only half prepared - “it won’t be fresh if I cooked it all in the Burrow!” she pointed out - and the small kitchen simply didn’t have enough ovens. And then it started raining, and everyone had to run into the small living room to find cover, where they found themselves sitting on sofas, chairs, the floor and eventually on one another, while Arthur was fascinated by the Grangers’ collection of VHS tapes and insisted they should watch something. Unwittingly, Mr Granger picked up a film called Excalibur.

The next two hours were spent with the Weasleys complaining about the historical inaccuracies and the improbable use of magic in the film, and the night ended with an unspoken agreement that any more dinner parties will be given at the Burrow.

But still, not everything could take place there. And so it happened that on the 31st of July everyone found themselves gathering in London, of all places, to celebrate Harry’s birthday at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

There had been another attack by renegade Death Eaters that morning, not far from Grimmauld place (“And that makes it the third this month!” Molly said, and looked at Kingsley with an edge to her voice). It took a couple of minutes by the door to reassured everyone, and then friends and family all gathered inside to enjoy the evening.

“This cake looks _delicious_ , Molly,” was all Harry could say when the Weasleys finally got in. And it did, along with everything else they had brought with them.

“Mum’s been cooking for three days,” Ron muttered to Harry. “She didn’t cook this much for my 18th birthday.”

“You were on the run on your 18th birthday,” Harry commented.

“Yeah, well, still,” Ron refused to let such small technicalities get in the way of a good grump, but it was all in good spirits.

“But really, Molly, you shouldn’t have. Kreacher’s been cooking as well,” Harry pointed out, to which Molly only replied that she didn’t have much faith in the house elf’s cooking skills.

She was wrong, of course - Kreacher was at least as good a cook as Molly herself, but Harry wasn’t going to argue the point, not when there was so much tasty food on the table.

Instead, he took out a very old bottle of firewhiskey from the Black Family cupboard. “It’s an... 1818? Was that a good year?” he asked, and with the shocked face Bill gave him, he assumed the answer was yes. It was a pretty good firewhiskey, and Harry figured he couldn’t appreciate it enough, not having enough experience. But it was tasty, and the cake was wonderful - as were Kreacher’s little appetisers - and soon they were all laughing and noisy and the Grangers, it seemed, were also a little drunk, but as Hermione scathingly pointed out when he joked about it, so were Seamus and Dean.

Only one time did the evening get uncomfortable. After some cake and a little bit of dancing, the doorbell rang, and there were Luna and her father, fashionably late or, as Harry said later, probably with no idea of the time.

He had invited Luna, of course. And she, it would seem, had assumed the invitation has included her father. He wasn’t completely opposed to it himself - Harry could recognise that whatever had happened with Xenophilius Lovegood had only happened out of his fear and love for Luna. He couldn’t blame him, not completely. But it was still there in the air between them.

Xenophilius looked around, embarrassed, then straightened up and offered his hand to Harry. “Mr Potter,” he said.

“Mr Lovegood,” Harry replied stiffly, but took the hand.

Xenophilius looked lost for a moment, and then, with the slightest nudge from his daughter, opened his mouth again. “I realise that the last time I had seen you was not under ideal circumstances,” he said, “but I wanted you to know that - “

“ - That you were a traitorous little git who sold us out?” Ron was not going to be as charitable as Harry, it seemed.

The music in the living room stopped. Everyone was interested in listening in on how this would turn out. They all had their own opinion.

“Drop it,” Harry mumbled to Ron.

“No, I’m not going to drop it,” Ron insisted savagely, and Harry looked at him in surprise. It wasn’t often that Ron flat out refused such a request. “We almost died because of him.”

“And Luna almost died because of us,” Harry reminded him.

“Why are you defending him?” Ron demanded. “He sold - us - out - to - Voldemort!”

Mr Lovegood jumped at the sound of the name.

“Yes. He did. But the war’s over, Ron. We won.”

“Not thanks to him,” Ron said.

“Ron, not now. Please.”

Ron shrugged. “It’s your party, mate,” he said, as he finally let the matter go and went back to the other room. Harry showed both Luna and Xenophilius into the living room, where they were met with curious - and some hostile - glances. Seamus seemed mostly sympathetic; Dean mostly hostile. And the Grangers were looking at the new arrivals in confusion. Luckily, Neville brought things back to normal as he asked Luna to dance, promptly ignoring her father, and the music - and with it, the party - started again. Even if most people took their cue from Neville and simply ignored Xenophilius. People started dancing again: Neville and Luna, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ron and Hermione - or started gossiping again: Seamus - indeed, slightly drunk - told Harry how Cho was back to dating Michael Corner; Lee Jordan wondered loudly who will be their instructor for Auror training, “what with so many people dying and all”; and Percy went on and on about the Sword of Gryffindor. “I told the Minister, you can’t publish that it’s gone again! People will panic! He said he doesn’t think it matters, that the Sword always appeared when it was needed, but I don’t know.”

“Are you sure you didn’t take the Sword with you?” Harry whispered, amused, to Neville.

“I wish I had,” he said, “imagine Percy’s face if i took it out now. Nah, I gave it to Kingsley. Someone must have put it in the wrong cupboard,” he shrugged, and went back to dancing. Harry smirked, and decided to get himself another butterbeer.

Andromeda Tonks was also near the long table that served as buffet. She had come to the party at Harry’s invitation. He felt obligated to do so, as she was Teddy’s grandmother and guardian, but he never expected her to come. And yet, at 7:30, she showed up at his door. Now, she was drinking a glass of coke brought by the Grangers, and looking at Harry.

“Something’s bothering you, Andromeda?” he asked.

“Weird drink, this thing,” she said.

“I’m surprised there’s no equivalent in the wizarding world,” he said. “It’s very popular with Muggles.”

“I can imagine,” she took another sip. Harry waited for her to say something else - he was sure she did not look at him like that only to comment about the coke.

“It’s a generous thing you just did there, Harry,” she observed after a while.

“How do you mean?”

“Xeno Lovegood," she gestured at Luna's dad, who was standing by himself, slightly awkwardly, at another corner of the room. "People are still very angry. They aren’t likely to forget who cooperated with Voldemort any time soon, even if they cooperated out of fear and not choice. Just like they aren’t likely to forget who’s a Slytherin and who’s a Gryffindor any time soon.”

“Well, I didn’t want to leave Mr - “ he started, and then registered the full meaning of what she was saying, and turned to face her in shock. “You married a Muggle-born,” he said in disbelief. “You were working with the Order. You gave us a safe house when they were moving me. Surely no one’s - ?”

She laughed, a small, bitter laughter. “You are quite incredible, Harry Potter. After all you’ve been through, and you still manage to remain...” she seemed to be considering her next word, “ - naive.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she had already gone. Her words remained with him all through the party, and the anger inside him grew whenever his gaze met her, standing slightly apart from everyone else.

Finally, around midnight, the party started dying down and everyone started leaving. “Are you coming to the Burrow or staying here?” Ron asked Harry, who had been alternating between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place for the past couple of weeks.

“I think I’ll be staying,” he said.

“Alright, good night then. Ginny, bring my coat while you’re at it, will you?” he called to his sister, who was standing in the hallway.

“You go ahead,” she answered him, “I think I’ll be staying a little bit longer.”

Ron, slightly drunk himself with the firewhiskey, froze in his place.

“Come on,” Hermione grabbed his arm, then pushed him towards the door. “Say good night.”

“Good night,” he mumbled, and she laughed. “Good night, Harry, Ginny,” she said, and dragged Ron out of the corridor and into the street. Harry closed the door behind them.

“Thought they’d never leave,” he said.

Ginny was already at his side. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, grinning widely. Harry grinned back, before holding her for a kiss.

  
**-X-**   


Throughout the summer, Harry continued to spend most of his time at Grimmauld place, not to burden the Weasleys. He still had dinners there, almost every evening; still spent most of his days and nights with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, with the girls working on a couple of essays every once in a while, but mostly they were having fun together, and no reasons to worry. Harry found himself for the first time a with no classes, no homework, no exams - in true holiday, not anticipating for the worst and not preparing for a war or to run for his life. And mostly, with no Dursleys.

He had seen Dudley a couple more times after that first time in May. On Dudley’s birthday, in June, he Apparated to Little Whinging with a birthday present, staying as far away as possible from Privet Drive and catching up with his cousin in one of the shops of the small town centre. Another time they played football again, and Dudley said he would like to see “that game with the broomsticks, whatsitcalled”. Harry laughed, but didn’t say a word.

The idea of Dudley watching a Quidditch match was ridiculous.

That same time, Dudley tried to convince Harry again to come to Privet Drive and talk to his aunt and uncle. Harry turned him down again, and soon after Disapparated back to London.

The third time he had gone back to Little Whinging was in August. On the day of the trial. When he needed to get away most from the wizarding world, from the discussions all around him. Everyone had an opinion, of course. Everyone thought they already knew what the best course of action would be.

It wasn’t news to anyone that Harry Potter was going to testify in Draco Malfoy’s trial. And wherever he went, people assumed they knew what he was going to say. “You make sure he’s going to go away for good,” one wizard told him in the Leaky Cauldron a week before the trial. “After you’ll talk, no one will ever think of giving him less than a lifetime in Azkaban - which is more than he deserves,” a small witch said when she ran into him in one of the shops of Diagon Alley. “With you, he doesn’t stand a chance,” several people told him when he came to visit Kingsley in the Ministry again.

Kingsley was one of the few who didn’t say a word. Even Ron had something to say, although, as he had known Harry, his words were different from what everyone else had said. “You’re completely bonkers,” Ron said. “You’re making a mistake,” he pointed out. “Why are you helping Malfoy?!” he asked, incredulous. “Hermione, tell him to get back to his senses,” he appealed to his girlfriend, with as little success as he had from Harry. Hermione said nothing - much like Kingsley. And when pushed, they both said the same thing.

“He’s got to do what he’s got to do.”

So, on the day of the trial, the day he was scheduled to give his testimony - whatever it may be, a doubt-ridden, questioning Harry found himself back in Little Whinging in an early morning hour, at the door of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Every instinct he had told him to walk away. He didn’t understand what brought him there in the first place, what possessed him to show up there, out of all the places in all the world. It was foolishness, it was pointless, and it wouldn’t do any good.

His hand was hanging in front of the door a long time, ready to knock.

Eventually, he lowered his hand, and turned away. He would step back to the alley and Disapparate back to Grimmauld place, or perhaps directly to the Ministry’s entrance. The trial was to begin soon enough.

“You.”

He registered the voice before he recognised the word as something that related to him. He turned back slowly. On Number Four’s doorstep, Petunia Dursley was standing with her shiningly clean kitchen bin, stopped on her way to put the bag into the equally clean but somewhat larger bin next to the gate.

“I was just leaving,” Harry mumbled.

He was almost at the gate when he heard her speak again. “Wait,” she said.

He stopped, and again turned to look at her. There was no love in her face, no affection as she was surveying him. He could imagine what he looked like to her - his hair was still lfar too long and messy to Petunia Dursley’s eyes. His jeans were shabby and slightly torn. The t-shirt he was wearing was salvaged from some of the stuff he had left at the Weasleys the last summer, and had not seen water in that long a time. In short, while his appearance was never one to gain him his aunt’s approval, he couldn’t look worse in her eyes if he tried.

Not to mention, he thought dryly to himself as she was standing there, still staring at him, the fact that he was there at all - that was bound to meet her deepest disapproval, whatever he looked like.

“You’re alive,” she finally said, stating the obvious.

“It’s all over,” he agreed.

“I know, the - “ she coughed for a second, then stopped, seemingly trying to find the right words. “ _They_ said so, when they brought us back here. Dedalus and Hestia,” she added, and Harry couldn’t help smiling. Aunt Petunia referring to wizards by their names - that must have been one hell of a year.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be leaving now,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Wait,” she said again, slightly louder, but when he turned again towards her, she still said nothing.

And then she did speak, and it was as if everything she had wanted to say from the day he got the letter from Hogwarts finally came out. “I don’t like that world of yours,” she said. “It’s abnormal, it’s scary, and it’s full of people who think their powers give them the right to do whatever they want. And they’re unkind.”

Harry refrained from commenting on the Dursleys’ behaviour in the 17 years he had known them.

“And when we took you in we swore we’ll put a stop to all this nonsense, we’d stamp that out of you, we’d make you... normal, but we failed and you’re just like - just like all of them,” she sniffled.

Harry felt that anger rising again, the anger he always felt when the Dursleys were talking of the magical world, of his parents, or of himself. But he didn’t express that anger, not this time, because her next words shocked him.

“But we never wanted you to die. Maybe we don’t know any spells, and can’t stop that Lord - _him_. But we were trying to protect you.”

Harry stared at her in stunned silence.

“I loved my sister. Before she became something different and got _sucked in_ , disappeared in all this nonsense. Before she changed. Before she got blown up. And you were the last thing that remained of her and I was going to try to protect you and frankly I don’t care what you think!” And with that, Aunt Petunia turned her back to him and marched back into her house, the bin forgotten on the doorstep.

Harry stared at the bin for a while longer, unsure what to do next. Only a year ago, he would have probably stormed her door, knocked it down and demanded to get some answers. A few years before that, he would have started shouting her down, how she didn’t understand anything.

But now, he just walked away. A small part of him, the part that was willing to try and forgive, if not forget, felt satisfied - even if just for that one moment. He felt ready now to Apparate directly to the Ministry of Magic.

There was no bigger contrast between Little Whinging’s sleepy morning and the activity in the Ministry of Magic at that same time. Instead of quiet homes and abandoned streets, the Ministry of Magic was full of people. Ministry employees, family members of fallen heroes, newspaper reporters; they all rushed about, trying to catch the best seats for the trial, to get their current objections or requests known, or generally be heard by anyone and everyone. In this commotion, even Harry Potter could disappear. He went down to the courts, found a seat far away from the front of the court, and waited for the whole thing to begin, and all that time he remained unnoticed. Even when Draco Malfoy was brought into the room - to the hissing and catcalls of the audience - and the trial started, he remained anonymous. Only when Kingsley Shacklebolt asked whether Harry Potter was in the room did he get up, and the people around him jumped.

“Is there something you want to say, Mr Potter?” said Kingsley, maintaining his official, most formal behaviour, and keeping as close to the protocol. Even now, as he looked directly at Harry, he didn’t give him a sign. Harry will do what he thinks is right, he had said, and it was obvious he was going to keep to that statement.

“Yes,” Harry said, and sat down in front of what looked like the entire wizarding community.

“Harry will do what he thinks is right,” Kingsley said the night before. “He’s got to do what he’s got to do.”

The only thing was, he never pointed out it might not make a difference at all.

Harry didn’t expect the wizards and witches in front of him to appreciate - or even understand - what he was trying to do. He wasn’t so sure he understood it himself. But he wasn’t quite prepared to the uncertainty in their faces as he went up and told them about the events that took place at Malfoy Manor and about Draco’s role on the Astronomy Tower. They wanted to believe him, he figured, wanted to believe in him - but for the first time, in front of everyone who had made it to Courtroom Six, he wasn’t quite sure this feeling would be stronger than the anger they had felt towards Draco Malfoy.

He could see Rita Skeeter’s face light up in excitement as she started writing furiously - no doubt about the confusion of Harry Potter. He had the feeling that this was not going to end well.

Still, he said what he had to say, and when he finished talking, he left the courtroom back to the Weasley’s house, and no one tried to stop him, and no one called back after him, and no one had anything to say. For a moment, Harry hoped that they were thinking about what he had said.

But when the verdict came, the wizards and witches of the Wizengamot didn’t need Rita Skeeter’s insinuations that Harry Potter had had one too many Killing Curses hitting him, or was emotionally unstable, or shocked and confused, or whatever it was she was going to write. The verdict came out that same day, and it came out the same as it would have had Harry kept his mouth shut. The wizarding world has declared Draco Malfoy guilty, guilty of being a Death Eater, of following Voldemort and his orders.

And the wizards of the Wizengamot were not the only one to consider Malfoy guilty. That evening, dinner at the Burrow was an unusually quiet affair.

“Please pass me the pie, Harry,” was the first thing Ron had said to Harry that entire evening - and was much more polite than Harry had ever heard Ron.

“‘Please pass me the pie’?” Harry repeated. “Are you feeling alright?”

Ron looked at Harry, saying nothing. Harry nodded and passed the pie, without asking any more questions. He was not going to start a fight at Molly Weasley’s table.

Unfortunately, Ron couldn’t stop himself any longer.

“You had to do it, didn’t you?” he said.

“Do what?” Harry asked - even though he knew the answer well enough.

“Testify for Malfoy!” Ron spat, raising his voice.

“It’s not like it helped,” Harry now raised his voice, too. “He’s still going to Azkaban.”

“Not thanks to you.”

“He saved our lives!” Harry repeated loudly, for what felt like the millionth time in the past couple of days. “He could have said who we were, in which case we’d be dead right now! And besides - “

“The war is over, yeah, yeah,” Ron cut across him angrily.

Harry was silent for a while. When he spoke again, it was in a quiet, calm voice. “What does that mean, exactly,” he said, not really asking.

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“It means that you’re too quick to forgive them. All of them! Death Eaters, Slytherins, Xeno - “

“Oh, you’re not still going on about Xenophilius Lovegood, are you!”

“Well, what if I am?!” Ron demanded. “What if I’m not ready to forget how many times we could have died, all the people we lost, Fr - “ he started and then stopped, realising Molly was still at the table. She stared at her plate now, frozen in place. Arthur put his arm around her shoulder, his face drained of colour.

At the other end of the table, George got up without excusing himself and left the room.

“I haven’t forgotten any of them,” Harry said quietly, hoping his words would reach George’s ears. “And I’m not going to. Ever.”

“But you’re willing to forget.”

“I’m willing to move on.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not as east for all of us,” Ron said reasonably.

“I’m all for finding all the active Death Eaters and throw them in Azkaban and throw away the key,” Harry replied. “But Malfoy isn’t one of them. He never really had a choice, did he? But if we insist to go after him, to lock him up for good, then what? What’s next, Ron? Death Eater families? Slytherins? Did you know Andromeda’s getting a hard time because she’s a Slytherin?”

“Well, Andromeda shouldn’t,” Ron muttered quietly, but then heated up again, “But yeah, why not check on Slytherins? And Death Eater families? You should remember what Sirius told you - these things are all in the family, that’s the way they’re brought up. And look at Malfoy - you think he’d be half the git he is if he didn’t learn it from his Death Eater father? Why not check on Death Eater families? And this isn’t about revenge, it’s not just because of - because of who we lost,” he shot a glance at Hermione as he said that.

And now Harry was really confused. “What does that mean?”

Hermione shot an angry look at Ron.

“Well?” Harry demanded.

“Look, Harry, I don’t want to - to give you the wrong idea, I understand what you’re saying, but - “

“But?”

“You’ve got a good position in the magical world. Your father was a pureblood wizard.”

“I thought we already had this conversation,” Harry said, irritated. “I doubt I’m going to be getting any Christmas cards from Death Eaters anytime soon. Including the Malfoys.”

“I’m not talking about Death Eaters.”

“Then what?”

“Everyone else.”

Harry looked at her, saying nothing.

“The ideas about pureblooded wizards didn’t start with Tom Riddle, Harry. They didn’t even start with Salazar Slytherin. They’ve been around as long as wizards lived with Muggles. And they’re going to continue long after no one remembers Voldemort’s name. And according to them, Ron’s alright because he’s pureblood, and Ginny’s alright because she’s pureblood, and even you’re alright because you’re half-blood. And I’m still a Mudblood - don’t look at me like that, Harry Potter! That word isn’t going to disappear any time soon.”

Harry said nothing; he could not think of a single thing to say in reply to Hermione’s words. As far as he could tell, she was right.

The rest of dinner was spent in silence, much like its beginning, and when they finished, Harry got up, thanked Molly and said that he thought he’d be sleeping in London that day. No one, not even Ginny, tried to stop him.

“I’ll walk you out,” was the most Harry got, a suggestion from Ron to walk with him to the point in the path where he could Disapparate.

“No, it’s okay, really,” said Harry, determined to remain calm and polite.

“Don’t be daft. Come on.”

They walked together in silence, and only at the gate, when Harry said, “Well, see you tomorrow,” did Ron start speaking.

“It’s okay to hate him, you know,” he said.

Harry sighed. “I really don’t hate Malfoy, Ron, I know it’s hard for you to - “

“Snape.”

Harry froze in mid-sentence, and stopped to look - to really look - at his friend.

“Look, Harry, you’re my best friend. I think by now I know you well enough to know how you feel about things. I don’t understand all of it, but I still know what it is. Snape was...”

“ - He risked his life - “

“ - disgusting, nasty, bullying - “

“ - he gave up everything to help defeat - “

“ - slimy, greasy-haired - “

“ - he gave up his life! - “

“ - Stupid git!”

“ - he loved her!”

“And he still made your life a living hell since the day he met you! Yeah, we never would have won without him, Harry, but he still had no love for you and he’d done nothing to hide that fact, so you shouldn’t feel obligated to appreciate that slimy bastard now that he’s gone.”

“What is it, then, is he a stupid git or a slimy bastard? Make up your mind,” Harry said absently after a moment’s silence, mainly to have something to say and not fall into another silence. He didn’t even know what to think of Ron’s words. He had spent the larger part of the past three months avoiding thinking of it altogether.

“No,” Ron said, “I meant you with that bit.”

Harry stared at him for a moment longer, and then they both started laughing.

“See you tomorrow,” he said again, this time with a smile and real warmth in his voice.

“See you, mate,” Ron replied, and stayed near the gate to watch Harry Disapparate.


	5. Politics

“Here,” Arthur handed Harry his copy of _The Daily Prophet_. “Read this.”

Harry took his hand off Ginny’s shoulder and reached for the newspaper.

“Good,” she said, “now you’ll stop distracting me!”

Ginny was in trouble - her game of wizard’s chess with Ron was going very badly. Ron, sitting in front of her in the Weasleys’ living room, smiled smugly. There weren’t many things in which he had the advantage over Ginny, and wizards’ chess was one of them. Whether Harry’s hand on Ginny’s shoulder distracted her or not, he was sure she will not gain the the upper hand now.

“Don’t smirk,” she told him. “You’d be the same if Hermione was here!” Ron shrugged, but remained sceptical. He tended to be pretty good, with or without distractions.

“Yeah, did she tell you when she’s coming back?” he asked. Hermione had been gone for a couple of days, as Professor McGonagall had asked her to help her with talking to new students about to attend Hogwarts, and she happily obliged. Ginny didn’t know, and Ron went back to the game, taking out her bishop.

In the meantime, Harry took the paper from Arthur, and for a moment wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at. The headline talked about the latest attack by rogue Death Eaters, followed by a mean-spirited piece that suggested Kingsley was incompetent and that he was ‘letting’ these attack happen - and couldn’t help but mention the by-now tired theory about Harry’s absence from the first attack at the memorial service.

Below it, Harry’s eyes were drawn to a piece about a rising under-secretary in the Office for Magical Law Enforcement, who was suggesting no Slytherin kids be admitted to Hogwarts - or any kids from mainly Slytherin families - without an extensive background check. That, the piece said, was in addition to an earlier suggestion to dismantle Slytherin House and spread its children through the other three Houses. “It’s a step in the right direction,” the under-secretary was quoted in the piece, “but if they come to Hogwarts already full of Death Eater ideology, it will do no good. Instead of being contained, they will spread it like a cancer to the rest of the Houses. Essentially, we will have created a new generation of Death Eaters, instead of eradicating them. We must weed out those likely to spread the ideas of Lord - you know, and we must do it not in revenge but to protect our society! This is self-defence, not vengeance!” And underneath this statement, a related box talked about Walden Macnair’s impending trial, criticising the Ministry and claiming it had been taking its time with this specific Death Eater because of his Ministry connections.

Harry looked away from the interview in disgust, and his eyes found the piece at last - the reason Arthur Weasley had shown him the paper.

 _RESEARCH SUGGESTS: BRAIN DAMAGE MIGHT BE CAUSED BY UNFORGIVABLE CURSES._ By Rita Skeeter  
‘A new research originating from the Research Department at the Ministry of Magic presents previously unknown evidence that unforgivable curses may not just be ways to torture and murder opponents, but may in fact inflict lasting physical damage on the receiving party.

‘Robert Wattford, a senior researcher with the Department, had this to say: “We have been researching this aspect of the curses for some time now. As you know, there are several patients at St Mungo’s who have shown signs of permanent damage after being tortured by the Cruciatus curse. The most famous of these are the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, who have spent the better part of the past 18 years in the closed ward, and the damage to their brains seems to be irreversible. I can only imagine what repeated exposure to the Killing Curse would do, to be honest.”

‘His worries might not be in vain. While the Killing Curse usually leaves one permanently damaged anyway, there have been signs of late that the one known survivor may have suffered some damage, after all.

‘Harry Potter, 18, the Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, is known to have been hit with the curse a minimum of three times, surviving each time, and is the only known wizard to have shown immunity to the curse’s deadly powers. But his unexplained immunity may not save him from all of the effects. Earlier this month, Potter testified in favour of Death Eater Draco Malfoy, and those who had witnessed the testimony have suggested Potter looked distracted, disoriented, and even confused. One witness suggested Potter didn’t seem to realise who he was testifying for. At first, sources at the Ministry suggested he may be under the Imperius Curse, but this recent evidence could prove to be the answer to Potter’s strange behaviour.

‘The _Daily Prophet_ wishes nothing but good to come to the Hero of Hogwarts, of course, but as The Boy Who Lived is about to start the hard and taxing Auror training (an office that has brought the largest number of Ministers for Magic out of all the Ministry’s offices), the possibility should be brought into Ministry’s attention at the highest levels.’

Harry finished reading the piece aloud, and folded the paper before giving it back to Arthur. “Well,” he said in response to the stunned silence in the room, “at least I’m still the Hero of Hogwarts.”

“That - cow!” Ginny was the first to get over the shock, her bishop abandoned and the game forgotten. “Why are they still letting her publish things?!” she demanded.

“Because a lot of people agree with her,” Arthur said quietly.

“What, that Harry coming back from the dead is a _bad_ thing?!”

“Actually, Ginny, she’s been quite careful not to say that,” he pointed out. “But only that Harry shouldn’t have testified for Malfoy. That whatever steps we need to take to really change the Ministry back to what it should be are important, but that defending Death Eaters - for whatever reason - is not one of them.

“I happen to agree with you, Harry. I don’t have any love for the Malfoy boy, or for any of them, as it happens. You know I feel nothing but disdain for Lucius. But that boy had heard how Lord Voldemort was the great hope for all wizards since the day he was born. And that must have had some effect on him, and yet, according to your story, he had already shown more common sense than his father.

“But you need to choose which battles to fight, Harry, and you’ve stacked all your reputation on the wrong one. There was never any hope that they would let Draco Malfoy go, not with the Dark Mark on his arm. That’s what Kingsley had tried to tell you. I sympathise, and I agree, but you need to know which fights to pick, because the name Harry Potter will only take you so far.”

“It sounds to me like I should argue this now, Arthur,” Harry answered. “This is the time when being me has some leverage yet, I might as well use it now before it’s all gone.”

“You do what you think is right. But just remember that Rita Skeeter doesn’t print the truth - she prints what is popular. Rita Skeeter has always had two great gifts: she prints sensational pieces, and she makes sure that in the end, no one is angry with her. If Rita Skeeter is already going after you, your name may hold less leverage than you think.”

Harry didn’t pursue the subject any further, even if he couldn’t let the conversation out of his mind completely.

There was one other thing that he couldn’t quite get out of his mind. That night, before going to sleep, he caught Ginny alone.

“I didn’t come back from the dead,” he said.

“What?” she was confused, not realising what he was talking about.

“What you said today. About the Killing Curse - I didn’t come back from the dead, it was - “ he looked for the word, for a way to explain without talking about the forest, about King’s Cross - “complicated magic.”

“When you showed up again, after we - after Hagrid was there, with your - you don’t know what it was like, Harry. Seeing you, not moving. Hearing _him_ talking about you, saying you’re dead, and...” she was lost for words for a moment. “I don’t know what happened that night,” she whispered, “but whatever happened, it was like you came back from the dead, because one moment you were dead, and the next he was.”

It was Harry’s turn to nod, but he didn’t say anything. It was just another thing he had to think about, adding up to the already long list that had just been made longer a couple of hours ago with Arthur’s words.

In the next several weeks, it turned out Arthur Weasley wasn’t completely wrong. Harry’s name came up more and more in the _Daily Prophet_ and in the wizarding radio. As the Ministry was working longer and longer hours in attempting to rebuild wizarding society, not just after the all-out war of the recent year, but because of the damage that had been caused since Voldemort’s first rise to power years and years ago, Kingsley had been asking Harry to become more involved. You are only eighteen, he said, but people respect your opinion. I respect your opinion, and we would like to have your feedback.

Arthur said that this was Kingsley’s way to respond to the continuing onslaught of pieces in the _Daily Prophet_ , not all of which were written by Rita Skeeter, questioning Harry’s judgement and his capability to make decisions. Kingsley had wanted everyone to see that he, the Minister for Magic, had nothing but faith and respect in Harry’s judgement.

“Don’t underestimate what he’s doing,” Arthur told him, and Harry had done his best. It wasn’t hard, of course - unlike Fudge or Scrimgeour, he had genuine respect for Kingsley, and he could see that this time, associating his name with the Ministry was not a ploy to gain popularity by Kingsley, but was as much an attempt by Kingsley to protect Harry as it was a genuine belief that Harry’s opinions mattered. He would not be a poster boy under Kingsley’s Ministry - he was there because his views were important to the Minister.

So he suffered through the long meetings, the squabbling and the ridiculous statements made by overly excited aides, scheming politicians and well meaning idiots, and in the end, gave his opinion. If you really want to make sure this never happens again, he said quietly, make sure the Minister for Magic never has as much power as he had until now. The problem wasn’t just Pius Thicknesse, he pointed out after the commotion had died down, but Fudge as well, who had done anything in his great power to make sure no one believed Voldemort was back. The problem was also Rufus Scrimgeour, who had collapsed under the pressure, resorting, in the end, to similar tactics as Fudge. If you really want to rebuild the Ministry, you need to make sure that while the Minister has the last word, there are plenty of people to stop him along the way.

He had sneaked a look at Kingsley after he finished talking, and was full of relief to see the Minister smile at him and nodding in agreement.

But his frequent visits to the Ministry were not the only reason his name came up so often. Still there were trials, and memorials, and services in honour of the dead. To the committee acquitting Severus Snape of any Death Eater association post-mortem and declaring him a war hero, Harry had shown up personally to testify and explain how he had risked his life repeatedly in service of Albus Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, and the vital role he played in the victory against Voldemort. Later on, when the Ministry had decided on a service honouring Snape, he had reluctantly shown up, but had flat out refused to make a speech in his memory when Kingsley brought up the possibility.

“It can be exactly what you said in the committee,” Kingsley pointed out. “You have no idea how moving that was, Harry.”

“No,” Harry answered flatly, and failed to give an explanation. Kingsley didn’t push the matter any further.

And then there were the ongoing, never ending trials. To these, Harry didn’t bother showing up. There was plenty of evidence against any Death Eater without the need for Harry to come personally and say the same thing over and over again. They had all heard it a thousand times before, anyway. This Death Eater had done Voldemort’s bidding and killed a family; another had used the Curciatus curse; others had been at the Malfoy Manor when Harry was captured there, or in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, or had fought at Hogwarts. Harry had given one statement to the Ministry, one that was used again and again, when they tried Goyle, when they tried Avery, when they finally cornered Yaxley after a long fight in the Muggle underground. Whenever any of these was brought before the Wizengamot, Harry’s name was mentioned.

And all the time, there was the onslaught of articles, opinion pieces and radio discussions. By mid-August, the voices calling for Harry to be examined in St Mungo’s had become louder and louder.

“I’m not saying there’s necessarily anything wrong with him,” Rita Skeeter said in a special programme on the wizarding radio, as Harry, Ron and Hermione listened with growing anger one morning in Grimmauld Place. “He might be perfectly alright. The thing is, we don’t know, do we? And it’s Harry Potter - you know, Matilda, of course, we all have a soft spot for Harry Potter! How can we not? And this is why we’re calling for him to be checked. It’s out of concern for Harry that we’re saying this, not, God forbid, because we _want_ anything to be wrong with him! But such things shouldn’t go untreated. You know what I mean? If there’s nothing wrong with him, then he shouldn’t have a problem being tested, and the wonderful healers in St Mungo’s will simply confirm that he’s fine and can continue work in the Ministry and become an Auror. But if something did go wrong - and this is, of course, you know, Matilda, nothing that would reflect on Harry himself, the wonderful hero that he is - but if he needs help, I know there is no one in the wizarding world who would not want to see him receive it. It’s for Harry’s own good, you know? If Harry - “

At this point, Hermione turned the radio off, unable to control her anger, and she and Ron had spent the next several minutes abusing Rita Skeeter, culminating in Hermione saying that maybe she should drop to visit the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and mention something about the unregistered animagus - “Or, at least, drop by my old friend Rita and mention this to her,” said finished.

She didn’t go in the end. Harry asked her not to, so despite her anger, she didn’t interfere. It will go away on its own, he said, and she looked sceptical, but agreed to follow his wishes. He had a bit of quiet for another three days, if long meeting at the Ministry in which the Minister and his committee argued whether they should consider considering some of the demands made by the goblins could be considered quiet. But at the afternoon of the third day, Kingsley caught up with him before he had the chance to go back to Grimmauld Place.

“Maybe you should go to St Mungo’s,” Kingsley said. Harry said nothing, just looked at him, his eyebrows raised.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” Kingsley hurried to clarify. “But it would help to put a stop to the rumours - and to shut Rita Skeeter up.”

“No.”

“This isn’t to say I don’t have faith in you, Harry. But we need to stop this, and this is the easiest way.”

“No,” Harry repeated.

Kingsley gave him a calculating look. So far, whenever Harry had insisted on something, Kingsley didn’t argue. But from the look on his face, Harry realised this was about to change.

“They’re not just questioning you, Harry. They’re questioning me for trusting you.”

“I thought trusting me was the point you were trying to make?”

“And it would be easier to make that point by showing test results that say there is nothing wrong with you.”

Harry’s eyes met Kingsley’s. “If it is my employer’s orders that I will go and get tested at St Mungo’s, I will follow those orders once I am a Ministry employee, that is, on the first of September. I will not get tested before then, and I will not get tested without a direct order to do so. Is it the Auror Office’s orders that I submit to a test at St Mungo’s before starting Auror training?”

It took Kingsley a while to reply - perhaps too long a while, but finally, he said no. “For now,” he added.

Harry nodded, and left. The matter was closed - for now. And the next morning Kingsley had appeared in another radio programme, to explain some of the Ministry’s new policies, and when the matter of Harry Potter had come up, he only said, “The Ministry of Magic has nothing but the deepest appreciation for Harry Potter and complete faith in him and his abilities,” and declined to add another word, except for saying that “If there is any Ministry employee who wishes to discuss this matter in detail, my door is always open”. The message was clear - talking to Rita Skeeter about Harry Potter had become unacceptable in the eyes of the Minister. That did not stop Rita Skeeter, however, and the very next day she had published a piece in which an unnamed Ministry official had said that Kingsley might be too enamoured with the Harry Potter Legend to see the cold facts. That quote, combined wish some fresh - but accurate - Ministry gossip, had made it clear that Rita Skeeter still had some support within the Ministry of Magic.

Harry did his best not to read the _Prophet_ , or listen to too much radio, as much as it was possible with Hermione around. She was getting more and more angry and, as a result, listening to more and more of the offending broadcasts. But even his best attempts to avoid the subject proved unsuccessful, several days after Kingsley’s interview, at the next meeting at the Ministry.

As usual, he did not sit next to the big oak table, but rather at the edge of the room, next to the other aides and junior secretaries. And yet his presence was commented upon by Will Jones, the Senior Under-Secretary in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the wizard in charge of the Office of Improper Use of Magic.

“Minister,” Jones said as he walked in, “I thought this was a closed meeting.”

Kingsley, who until that point had been talking to Percy about something-or-other regarding the regulations about dragons, raised his head. “Yes, it is, Will,” he replied.

“Then why are there people here not employed by the Ministry of Magic?”

It took a while for the sentence to sink in, but when it did, twenty heads turned towards Harry. Heidi Macavoy, who sat next to him and was now a junior assistant in the Department of International Magical Cooperation and had been eyeing Harry secretly since he had walked in, had now dropped all pretence and stared at him openly.

“I thought we’ve already had this discussion, Will?” Kingsley asked in his pleasant, booming voice.

“Yes, Kingsley, we did, but at the time this was presented as the Minister’s preference and, as it is our custom not to question the Minister’s request, I kept my doubts to myself. However, seeing as you have been pushing to give more responsibilities and a bigger voice to the heads of the different departments, I must say that the inclusion of non-Ministry people in secret Ministry meetings - whoever they are - seems inappropriate. To me, at least,” Will Jones smiled. “I hope I am interpreting your words in the spirit they were said?”

“Yes, of course,” Kingsley said, slightly irritated, “however - “

“However, when a meeting is declared as _closed to the public_ , it is inappropriate not to include _all_ of the public in this declaration. Once Mr Potter is a Ministry employee then by all means, I’m sure we would all enjoy his input. Until then...”

Harry got up before Kingsley had a chance to reply. “It’s alright, Minister,” he said in a clear voice. “Mr Jones,” he acknowledged the wizard, and left the room.

He wasn’t angry - on the contrary. Those meetings were becoming longer and longer, and more and more boring. He had been losing patience with them for quite a while now, especially as the August sun was becoming weaker and weaker, reminding him that it would be September soon and that Ginny and Hermione would board the Hogwarts Express, while he and Ron would be gone for Auror training. He preferred to spend the last days of summer with Ginny, rather than waste them all indoors, listening to wizards squabbling about new Ministry appointments and whether the uniform of the security wizards at the Ministry should be changed.

Kingsley, on the other hand, was not pleased at all. That night he showed up to dinner at the Weasleys’ together with Arthur, carrying bad news.

“Jones didn’t want you out of that meeting for nothing, Harry,” Arthur said darkly as he sat down with a thump at the table. “Molly, this looks delicious,” he said and started wolfing down his dinner, leaving Kingsley to give the news as he added more peas to his plate.

“They passed a new regulation. He must have had this planned with Inglebee. All candidates for Auror training must undergo preliminary check-ups at St Mungo’s prior to beginning their training. I’m sorry, Harry - both Gawain and myself were strictly against it, but we lost the vote.”

“How could you lose that vote?” Molly asked, scandalised, just in time for Arthur to resurface from his mashed potatoes.

“Will was very clever about this,” he said. “He made sure not to single out Harry, actually, just talked about how stressful a job being an Auror is, and how the Ministry must make sure that all the candidates are fit. And then he pointed out that forcing everyone to take the test would quiet down all the noise about Harry without singling him out. And everyone bought that.”

Once again, everyone was looking at Harry - who, in turn, was slowly eating his vegetables, saying nothing.

“Look, Harry, this _is_ the best option,” Arthur said. “That way we’re resolving everything quietly and Rita Skeeter won’t have anything more to say about - “

“I’m not going to submit to a useless examination just because someone in the Ministry wants to score some points,” Harry said, the anger rising to his head and in his voice, “and if he’s going to - “

“Oh, just take the damn test already,” Ron cut across him, and Harry stopped talking, looking at Ron in surprise. “We’ll set an appointment at St Mungo’s and go there together next week, alright? I have to take it too, now, you realise. And then everyone will shut up, Will Jones included. You’re not going to give up being an Auror just because some upstart Ministry official found a way to get his name in the _Daily Prophet_ , are you? Are you?”

Harry turned his gaze from Ron to Kingsley, who raised his eyebrows, without saying anything. But his expression was clear. Pick your battles, Harry, he had said, and that was one of those battles.

He returned his gaze to Ron. “Of course not,” he said. “Yeah, we’ll take it together.”

A sigh of relief could almost be heard around the table, as the dinner moved to more pleasant topics, and spirits cheered up considerably when George walked in with Angelina about half an hour later, when everyone was already eating Molly’s wonderful cake.

“Sorry, Mum,” he kissed her on the cheek. “Didn’t notice the time - and there were so many customers today, I could barely close as it is.” Wealseys’ Wizarding Wheezes had just re-opened that very same day for the first time since the Weasleys went underground. The demand hadn’t gone down at all - as the beginning of the Hogwarts school year was looming, what seemed like every kid still at Hogwarts rushed to the newly-opened shop.

“Hope you don’t mind I brought Angelina along, she helped me with the shop so I thought I might as well get her some dinner.”

“Of course not,” Molly smiled, a truly happy smile, and Harry knew why. This was the first time since that day at Hogwarts, nearly four months ago, that George resembled his old self again.

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Angelina said and sat down next to George. Molly rushed to get them what was left of the mashed potatoes.

They didn’t discuss the matter of St Mungo’s after that, but the next week Harry and Ron walked into the hospital, and quietly waited for their turn in the queue to the bored witch at the reception.

“Yeah?” she asked them, concentrating more on her nail file than on them.

“We’re here for the Auror physical exam,” Ron told her.

“Did you make an appointment? Or did you think to just walk in here?” she asked in an irritated voice. “I’ve already had three people today who _didn’t bother make an appointment_. Obviously, being Aurors makes some think they are in some way more important than the rest of us wizards, and that normal regulations about - “

“ - We have an appointment,” Harry didn’t even wait for her to stop for breath.

“Oh,” she didn’t sound abashed at all, only slightly more irritated - possibly at not being allowed to complete her rant. “Names?”

“Ronald Bilius Weasley and Harry James Potter.”

 _Now_ the receptionist raised her eyes form the nail file. “Oh,” she said again, staring at Harry.

“Well?” Ron asked.

“Floor 3, room 17.”

“Thank you.”

The healer at room 17 wasn’t much better. Long after Ron finished his rather routine check-up, Harry was still inside, as the healer cast spell after spell at Harry. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Potter,” he said without sounding sorry at all after about half an hour. “You realise, of course, that with all the possibilities, we need to check everything to make sure it’s all okay. We don’t often get to examine people after they’ve been hit with the Killing Curse - well,” he amended his previous statement, “not when we can still ask them questions, anyway.”

Harry didn’t answer. In fact, all the answers he had given to the healer’s questions were clipped, monosyllabic and to the point, without a hint of friendliness. It didn’t seem to bother the healer at all, who kept on chattering about how fascinating it is to examine Harry and what interesting research could be conducted if Harry would come more often.

After 45 minutes that seemed like eternity, Harry was released from the healer’s cluthces and went out back to the corridor, where Ron was staring at the ceiling.

“Thought they started vivisecting you there,” were his only words when he saw Harry.

“They probably would have had I stayed there any longer. Let’s go.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who preferred to pretend the test never took place. The Weasleys, too, tried to avoid speaking of it. At one point later that evening Molly seemed about to ask something, but changed her mind at Ron’s violent head movement - _don’t_. Kingsley, when he arrived, didn’t ask how it went, but pretended as if he didn’t know Harry had taken the examination that day. Only as he was getting up to leave, did he turn to Harry.

“I have the results of your test, if you’re interested,” he said.

“I’m not.”

He nodded and left, and that was the last the Weasleys discussed the topic - until the next morning.

Ginny was the first to look at the _Daily Prophet_ , after she paid the delivery owl. She unfolded the paper, took a sip from her pumpkin juice - and immediately spat it all over the front page.

“I don’t want to know,” Harry immediately said, and the look Ginny gave him confirmed his suspicion that the offensive headline was, indeed, about him. “Really. I’m not interested in what the _Prophet_ has to say about me.”

“Harry...”

“It’s okay. I really don’t care.”

And still, Arthur caught Harry before going to work. “I just wanted you to know, the test came out alright,” he said quietly.

“I know it did,” Harry said, using his normal voice. “I really wasn’t worried about that.”

“It’s okay to be worried, Harry. No one really knows why - “

“I know,” he didn’t let Arthur complete the sentence. “I know, Arthur. I know why I survived, each and every time. Even in the forest. I know what happened. I’m just... I’m not ready to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Okay. If you ever want to talk - “

“ - then I’ll probably tell Ron,” Harry completed the sentence and they both laughed.

On the breakfast table, a small, pumpkin-juice stained headline in the _Daily Prophet_ read: POTTER TEST PROVES INCONCLUSIVE.

  
**-X-**   


The last days of the summer holidays were spent ignoring the Ministry, and the Daily Prophet, and Rita Skeeter. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny had spent their last week together playing Quidditch, exploding snap and wizards’ chess, going to Diagon Alley and George’s shop and travelling around London, and mostly, with each other.

“Blimey, can you imagine,” Ron said on the last day of the holidays, “Tomorrow’s going to be the first day we won’t be going together to Hogwarts.”

“That’s so weird,” Harry said, playing with Ginny’s hair.

“I’m sure McGonagall wouldn’t mind you guys coming to visit,” Hermione said in a rational manner - a rationality Harry found somewhat maddening.

“If we get the chance. Auror training is supposed to be really intense,” Ron answered gloomily. He seemed to become more and more unhappy with the prospect of leaving Hermione, the closer the deadline had come - but nothing in the world could have convinced him to go back to Hogwarts, not after he’d been authorised by the Ministry to start Auror training despite not having his N.E.W.T.s. “Why can’t you decide to give up Hogwarts and become an Auror?” he complained.

“Because I don’t want to be an Auror. And the N.E.W.T.s are important, Ron! Honestly, I don’t understand why you two are rushing to join the Ministry. I promise you, you’d be able to start Auror training next year, too.”

Harry, however, knew exactly why Ron was so reluctant to do his N.E.W.T.s. His friend had confided in him several weeks earlier - if they go back to Hogwarts, he said, he probably won’t get the necessary marks to continue to Auror training. Harry pointed out, quite reasonably, that after his role in defeating Voldemort, no one was going to look at his N.E.W.T.s anyway - but Ron remained unconvinced.

Harry didn’t worry about the N.E.W.T.s. He knew that he could become an Auror if he wanted to, regardless of how well he did in another year at Hogwarts. He just didn’t want to go back. Oh, he would miss Ginny, and Hermione - and even some of the teachers, like Professor McGonagall. But he couldn’t go back there and not see Dumbledore, or Colin Creevey, or any of the other people who were supposed to be there, who should, by all rights, be there - but wouldn’t.

Every corner would be a reminder, every classroom a memory. Hogwarts used to be his home, the one place where he really felt he belonged - but the war had changed all that, and he couldn’t go back and face it, not yet.

So he would go tomorrow, and become an Auror. Life was about moving forward, was it not? So now he was moving forward, in a new direction.

A new direction... his mind left Ron and Hermione’s bickering, and wandered to earlier that day, when Kingsley had asked him to come to the Ministry of Magic, to perform one last service before the beginning of his training. In the Ministry, in the Atrium, in front of photographers and reporters, family and friends, together with the members of the Order, of Dumbledore’s Army, and anyone who had fought that day almost four months ago, Kingsley had given each and every one of the Heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts their medals, Order of Merlin, Second Class. And Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, etc etc etc, went on the makeshift stage last, and received his own medal, Order of Merlin, First Class, given in recognition of special services, that is to say, his victory over the worst and most terrible wizard in known history, ending the war and returning peace to the wizarding world in general.

“We all owe you more than we could ever give back,” Kingsley said, “so we ask you to accept this token.”

Harry did, of course, with handshakes and smiles, and plenty of photo opportunities, including to the _Daily Prophet_ \- he had suffered in silence and pretended to be interested. And when he got back to the stage - because how could the ceremony continue without Harry Potter making a speech? - he told them that this honour was not for him, but for Dumbledore, for Snape, for Fred Weasley, for Colin Creevey, for... the list went on and on, but he mentioned each and every one of them. All the reasons he would not go back to Hogwarts this year.

“What are you thinking about?” Ginny asked softly.

“You,” he said.

“Liar,” she retorted, and he just smiled at her. It was going to be their last night together for a while now, and he was going to make the best of it.


	6. Aurors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story's rating starts to kick in, folks. Warning for one scene of disturbing imagery.

“You may not have noticed, but this class it somewhat different than the ones we’re used to,” Gawain Robards had said to his new recruits.

Of course they had noticed. They had all known each other: Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus, recreating their Gryffindor boys’ dormitories after a year’s break, but also other members of Dumbledore’s Army joined in this class on their way to become Aurors: Padma Patil, Cho Chang, Lee Jordan, Anthony Goldstein, Katie Bell and Lavender Brown. Harry was quite sure Robards didn’t mean the awkward fact that both his ex-girlfriend and Ron’s were here with them, and so he had not made a comment in that spirit.

“This class is special for two reasons. The first is that after the recent war, the Auror office is in desperate need of new Aurors, therefore we have allowed more people than usual to start the training. The second is that all of you have previous experience in fighting dark wizards - and quite successfully, may I add.

“As a result, you will be given a much shorter training period than the usual one of three years. In addition, your training will be somewhat different - if the need arises, you will be sent to the field to assist more experienced Aurors.”

It was a sign of how much things had changed that no one started whispering excitedly at that announcement. A year ago, Harry could see all of the present finding the news fantastic - himself included.

Not now. Not this group. They were all battle scarred, some of them quite literally so - not just Harry and the scars on his forehead, on his hand and around his neck and chest, but Neville, his face still showing some burning marks from the curse that wouldn’t hold; Lavender, the side of her face pierced by Greyback’s claws; and Padma Patil, the back of her hand showing a scar that wouldn’t heal, probably from a Death Eater’s curse. And those of them without physical scars still carried the marks of that war: Seamus, much more quiet than Harry had ever remembered him; Dean, who had spent that year on the run just like Harry and Ron; and Katie, Cho, Anthony and Lee, who had fought valiantly with all of them, who had been there together with them until the very end.

Robards was right - this was not any regular group of recruits. These were people who had already known the terrible price of war and of fighting dark wizards.

A year ago, he might have been surprised to find Cho Chang there, or Anthony Goldstein - and definitely Lavender Brown. But not now, he realised. These were no longer the kids who had gone to school with him for six years.

The war had changed all that. The war had changed all of them.

“Potter,” Robards turned to Harry.

Here it comes, Harry thought and sighed inwardly, but outwardly he only asked “Yes?”

“How did you get here?”

“I... Apparated?” he half-said, half-asked, confused with the question. That was definitely not what he expected.

“You Apparated,” Robards repeated his words. “The paperwork I have here says you don’t have a permit to Apparate.”

“What?” Harry was taken aback - and then realised. Of course he didn’t have a permit. He had gone into hiding at the Dursleys’, and then at the Weasleys’, before his 17th birthday. By the time he had turned 17, the Ministry had fallen, and there was no way for him to get a permit. And after the war... after the war, he simply didn’t think about it. By now, he had taken Apparition for granted. He never once remembered he had no legal permit to do so.

Robards seemed to be aware of it. “I take it you have plenty of experience Apparating?” he asked, and when Harry nodded, he announced, “Very well. Come to my office on Thursday night, we will let you take the test. So the next time you find yourself Apparating, you can do so _legally_ , which is rather important to us, seeing as you’re now part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Harry nodded, and next to him, Ron stifled a laugh.

“So, with that little matter taken care of, let’s see what you’ve got. We are now in an old Muggle school, which the City of Manchester has declared unsafe and is planning to destroy in the near future. We, of course, have already taken care of the safety issues. You have fifteen minutes to make sure no Muggle will find their way here. Move, people, move!”

Harry smiled at Ron as the both of them took out their wands and started casting well-rehearsed Muggle-repelling spells.

 

Ten hours and more information than their skulls could probably hold later, they found their way into the dormitories, a small room that had been converted from a Muggle classroom into sleeping space, filled with five double-bunk beds and one camp bed by the door.

It was a long distance from the luxurious, comfortable dormitories of Gryffindor Tower, where Ginny and Hermione were probably getting settled right now after a good meal.

Ron looked at the bunk beds, his expression mirroring Harry’s disgust.

“I’ll take the upper one,” Harry sighed.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed.

“Look on the bright side - it’s warmer than a tent!”

“For now,” Ron refused to be cheered up.

They had just put their bags on the beds when Padma and Lavender came into the room and claimed the bunk beds next to theirs.

“Hi Ron, Harry,” Lavender said quietly.

“Hi,” Harry said awkwardly, and looked from Ron to Lavender. If this reunion had been awkward for him, it was nothing compared to the awkwardness Ron and Lavender both felt. They hadn’t spoken to each other - _really_ spoken to each other - since their break up after Ron’s 17th birthday. With the exception of that terrible night at Hogwarts four months ago, they hadn’t even seen each other for a year - and that night there was no time for anything, especially not for catching up with Lavender, seeing as Ron was sure they would all die and cared more to tell Hermione how he truly felt.

Now Harry looked at Lavender - for the first time, he really looked at her, at the signs of her encounter with Greyback and at her happy expression - and realised Ron shouldn’t feel awkward at all. Lavender hadn’t come to get her boyfriend back; she was just saying hello to two old friends, who had gone through a lot together, and some of it with her. He hoped Ron could see that, too.

“Hi, Lavender. How have you been?” Ron asked her, slightly reserved, but with a perfectly friendly voice.

“Oh, you know, this and that. Mainly we’ve been to St Mungo’s, trying to see what I can do with that - “ she pointed to the scars to her face. “But apparently not much. I was a bit worried a couple of weeks ago, when they sent that letter that we all had to undergo physical examination. I was afraid they wouldn’t let me be an Auror if I’m too much of a - well, you know, I’m not really a werewolf, I don’t transform or anything - “

“ - But some things change, yeah. My brother Bill had the same thing after he met Greyback, too.”

“Oh, that’s right! I had forgotten all about that,” Lavender said. “How is he?”

“He’s alright, he’s great! He’s married now. Still working at Gringotts.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Lavender was truly delighted.

“It’s not the end of the world, Lavender.”

“Oh, I know - don’t worry, really. It’s quite alright, honestly, just requires getting used to some things.”

At that point, Harry became distracted with the people who had taken the bunks on the other side of their own - Katie and Cho.

“Hi guys,” Katie said as she threw her bag at the bed, and Cho said quietly after her, “Hi, Harry.”

“Hi,” he said, feeling a lot more awkward than he did only a moment ago.

“Funny to see you here, Harry. I’d have thought the Ministry would have made you an Auror right away,” Katie said, oblivious to the tension between Harry and Cho.

“Yeah, well, I guess I don’t know everything yet,” he smiled.

“Well, I’m glad to have you here. It’s bound to make things more interesting.”

“I never knew you wanted to become an Auror, though.”

Katie thought about this for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I never thought about it seriously when I was in Hogwarts. But then after spending all that time in St Mungo’s, because of the curse, and then last year... “

“Yeah, I never considered it either,” Anthony Goldstein joined in. “Not until the DA, anyway. And then, with the Carrows last year, I realised all I wanted to do was be one of the people who are responsible to catch people like them.”

“I just spent all the time on the run,” Dean added, “and all I wanted to do was fight back, but we couldn’t. And then they got Ted...” he turned quiet, and Harry knew he was talking about Ted Tonks,. “It was pretty awful. And then they got you, Harry!”

“What?” this was news to the rest of the group. “When did they get you? How did you escape?”

And Harry, helped by Ron, found himself spending the next fifteen minutes telling the story of how they got caught by snatchers, how they were identified, and how they were brought to the Malfoy Manor.

Seamus whistled when Harry finished talking. “So that’s why you testified for Malfoy,” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry really wished to avoid that subject, but it appeared this was not to be the case.

“Well, sorry to say, Harry, but I’m glad he was put in Azkaban. I don’t care if he had a change of heart, or if he was too much of a coward to be a proper Death Eater. He was one of them, and that’s good enough for me to never want to see his face again,” Dean said. “Can you imagine, though, living with You-Know-Who in your house?”

The conversation then turned into safer grounds - as much as the war could be considered safer grounds. But they all had similar stories - those who went into hiding, those who had stayed at Hogwarts, resisting the Carrows, and those who had come back to help. It soon became obvious that Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil had grown quite close over that year; that Seamus was spending a lot of time with Lavender, much more than he had done before, at least as much as he did with Dean; that Katie Bell and Cho had become quite good friends; and that any insecurity Neville might have possessed before that year seemed to have gone.

Harry was slowly coming to the realisation that, as full as his own year had been, and as hard, and as much as everyone else in the wizarding world had wanted to hear about it, he had missed quite a lot of his friends’ stories, as well. So he sat on his bunk and listened, rarely joining in with the conversation, but mostly trying to catch up, to hear all about the people around him, and what happened to them.

He was tired, but still he refused to go to sleep, even after they turned out the light and the conversation became quieter, whispered between the bunks. He wanted to hear all about it - more about Neville’s rebellion, about how Seamus had fought the Carrows. More about Cho and Katie’s involvement with Potterwatch and with helping those members of the Order of the Phoenix they could find, about how Dean managed to escape the Death Eaters for so long, hiding in the forest.

Dean started telling in length of the forest - how he learned to fish, how they learned to recognise the signs that Death Eaters were getting near, how they learned to disguise themselves. It was bad luck that Ted Tonks was captured and murdered, he said sadly. They had such great luck until that point, but the Death Eaters were closing in on them and they had to Apparate somewhere else. It wasn’t snowy then, rather, it was already spring. The ground was wet, but that was good, because no one would hear him as he approached. The wet ground had swallowed his footsteps. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to get there undetected, except that he wanted to face Voldemort on his own terms, not on Voldemort’s. So he followed the Death Eaters quietly.

“No sign of him, My Lord,” said the Death Eater, and Voldemort looked truly disappointed, almost angry. And then Harry revealed himself, and Voldemort looked at him in his cold eyes, holding his hand to Harry’s scar, and Harry couldn’t move, tied to the tombstone with Tom Riddle’s name on it, and his scar exploded with pain and he screamed.

“Harry!” he heard a familiar voice - was it Dumbledore? No, it can’t have been, it was Ron, and he opened his eyes.

The light was switched on, and around him stood ten people, some looking at him with concern, other curious. Harry put on his glasses and realised where he was - Auror training. Dean was no longer telling his story. From the way he was blinking - from the way they were all blinking - he had finished telling his story a long time ago.

“You were shouting, mate,” Ron said.

Harry took a deep breath. The war was over. They had won. Voldemort was dead.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Bad dream.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for waking you up, guys,” he mumbled again.

“Don’t worry,” he recognised Seamus’s voice, and the rest of them went back to bed.

“You sure you’re alright?” Ron asked, concern in his voice. Harry grabbed his towel, drying up on the frame of his bed from that night’s shower, and dried his face from the sweat.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

“Sure,” Ron said, and waved his wand. The room returned to darkness, and Harry, heart pounding, tried to go back to sleep himself. He had classes, first thing in the morning.

Day after day, it was school. Not school as he had known it, not even like Hogwarts, but still: school. Classes, homework, exercises, things to memorise. Harry soon discovered that not going back to Hogwarts for their N.E.W.T.s might not have been the best idea after all - he and Ron, together with Dean, were hopelessly behind on some things the others mastered easily. And so they worked even harder.

The days flew by. On Thursday he had his Apparition test, which he passed with flying colours, but already the next day he had forgotten all about it - they had to look for clues in a forest, and Harry and Ron soon realised they were in the Forest of Dean.

That night, he had nightmares again.

The was no real rest on the weekend, either. Technically, it was their own free time, but they all used it to catch up with their work - it felt like that year when they took their O.W.L.s, spending entire weekends studying. There were no distractions here, no Quidditch, or Ginny, or some mystery to solve with Hermione, but by 5 p.m., all eleven of them had had enough, and they left the premises to get a drink in a near-by Muggle pub, courtesy of Dean who still had some Muggle money with him. They saw Robards there, but he didn’t say anything - apparently, there was no problem with them leaving the premises on their time off. Why should there be? Katie complained loudly - they had no time off anyway.

They hadn’t seen much of Robards after that first day. The head of the Auror office, of course, had more important things to do than to train each new class of Aurors. He would never have had the chance to do anything else that way, and these days the Ministry needed him more than ever. No, it was Dawlish who became their instructor.

None of them liked the idea - John Dawlish had cooperated with the Pius Thicknesse regime, with Voldemort. But he was brought up before a committee and had managed to prove in a satisfactory manner that he had no sympathies for the Death Eaters. “I had a job to perform,” he pointed out, “and a lot to lose if I spoke up against them. I wasn’t a member of the Order of the Phoenix, no. And I had my family to think of.” And so, he was cleared by the committee. Neither Kingsley nor Robards liked the idea of keeping Dawlish as an Auror, though, and at last, a compromised had been reached. Dawlish will not be an active Auror anymore, but instead had been delegated with the job of instructor, training new Aurors.

Harry knew all of this, because after their very loud protests at the sight of him, Gawain Robards explained the situation. The new recruits accepted the explanation, but didn’t like it. They all seemed to look at Harry, see first how he reacted to this, and then, when he shrugged and said “If you must,” the rest had accepted it, too.

Dawlish knew that his story was not a secret - just like he knew that, unlike himself, all of the people he was training had picked up a side, and fought for it, risking their own lives. They had a reason to look down at him, he knew, and he seemed as unhappy with the situation as they were. There was some tension between the teacher and his students, but things had been mostly civilised, until Sunday afternoon.

On Sunday afternoon, everything changed.

They were in their dining hall, working on an assignment given to them by Dawlish. Usually, these assignment would be an individual work, but they were all friends - they were doing this together.

“Harry, do you remember this spell?” Cho was just showing her book to Harry, seeking his advice, when Dawlish opened the door with a loud bang and they all jumped.

“Get your stuff. Real emergency. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

They all looked at each other - stunned that this was happening so quickly - and got up from the chairs. Harry had just enough time to rush to their dormitories, pick up his invisibility cloak, and join the others in the dining hall as Dawlish showed up again.

“There has been an attack by Death Eaters in a small village named St Nevis. We’re getting mixed reports, some say they are still there and that they have hostages,” he briefed them, and grabbed a book - Cho’s spell book - and turned it into a Portkey. “Let’s go.”

They all grabbed the book, and Dawlish tapped it again with his wand. Harry felt for a second the familiar sensation behind his navel, and off they were.

The Portkey had brought them to a small wood, just outside of the village. It was already getting dark.

“Wands out,” Harry whispered, out of habit, and the ten people behind him immediately pulled their wands out. Dawlish seemed slightly irritated with this, but said nothing. This was not the time. Instead, he had led them further into the woods.

It wasn’t long before they could see a small cottage ahead. And before it - every Auror still employed with the Ministry. Kingsley was there, as were Robards, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, and a dozen other Aurors that Harry didn’t recognise.

Kingsley approached them, looking worried. “Harry, you and the others spread in a perimeter about 500 metres from the house. Don’t get any closer, don’t engage anyone - unless they’re starting to run away. We’ve put spells around so they can’t Disapparate from the house. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” they all answered, and spread around the house.

Harry found a position 500 metres from the house, like Kingsley ordered him, and directly in front of the door. His wand ready, he looked at the battle that had started in front of him. The Death Eaters were the ones who started: spells started shooting outside of the house in every direction. A team of Aurors started retaliating, then, with a burst of flame from someone’s wand that must have been a signal, stormed the house. in all directions.

The most frustrating thing was that there was nothing to see, not from this distance. Harry was on his feet, itching to jump in, to help. Through the windows, Harry could see flashes of green and red, but then, these stopped as well. Someone had won, but there was no way to know who.

Hestia Jones was the first to get out of the house, and Harry breathed in relief. It was over, and the Ministry had won. Not thanks to them, of course, they had just watched - but still, it was over.

But something was wrong. Hestia didn’t look happy as she left the house, but instead walked straight to Kingsley, talking to him quietly, urgently.

Next to Harry, Ron showed up. “What d’you reckon is going on?” he asked.

“No idea,” Harry said, and an idea came to him. He pulled the invisibility cloak, and together with Ron, they sneaked closer to the house.

There was no problem going in through the open door. Most of the Aurors had already left the small house, and no one was watching it - the emergency was over, after all.

And when Harry and Ron walked into the house, they realised why only Aurors came out of the house. Everyone else was dead.

There were three bodies of Death Eaters near the entrance, where they must have met the Aurors. But behind them, in the main room, Harry and Ron could see more bodies. Bodies that didn’t look like Death Eaters. Bodies of people who were too young to ever be Death Eaters - a family. The father had tried shielding the rest with his body, slumped over them. From the awkward angle his children were lying, it seemed they had tried to get out after a curse had hit him, and were hit by other curses in turn. A couple of feet from them their mother could be seen, her hands stretched.

Whether the Death Eaters had killed them or the Aurors, there was no way of knowing. In the mayhem that ensued as soon as the Aurors broke into the house, the hostages could have died from any misaimed curse, cast by any of the participants. But that didn’t matter now, not to Harry.

He was angry. He wasn’t sure with whom, or why. He was angry with the Death Eaters, of course, but they were dead. And what about the Aurors? Was he angry with the Aurors, for failing to save the hostages? He didn’t know, not for sure. All he knew was that it shouldn’t have looked like that. That with more than a dozen well-trained Aurors, there shouldn’t have been so many innocent people killed.

They left the house in a hurry and joined the other Auror-trainees, Harry hiding his cloak in his bag. The others all looked confused, not quite sure what had happened - but then Dawlish gathered them, and took them back to their training facilities.

“What happened?” Seamus demanded.

“The Death Eaters. They killed all the hostages before we had a chance to even go inside,” Dawlish said.

Harry lifted his head in surprise, and looked at him. He had seen the house - he couldn’t say so, of course, but he had seen it. He had seen the victims, the way they were huddled together, the expressions on their faces. Whichever curse had hit them, whoever was directly responsible to their death, it was not the way Dawlish described - of this, he had no doubt. These people were not executed, Harry was sure of it. They had died of stray curses that were not meant for them.

But when they looked at the _Daily Prophet_ the next day, the newspaper had repeated Dawlish’s version, that the hostages were murdered by the Death Eaters before the Aurors could get inside. Still, the paper had dedicated a long article to criticise the Ministry and describe how sluggish the response from the Auror office had been, how the disaster could have been prevented - should have been prevented.

By the end of the week, however, things had changed. It was Friday afternoon that Harry sat with copies of the Daily Prophet, and tried to understand what, exactly, had happened.

On Tuesday, two days after the incident, the Prophet had published that the Smith family, the dead hostages, had all been Slytherins. It was possible, the editorial suggested, that they had not been chosen at random, and that the Death Eaters had been given entrance to their house, rather than the previous assumption that they had broken in.

On Wednesday, the Prophet’s main headline was that one of the Death Eaters who had been killed in the incident was a cousin of Jeremiah Smith, and a Ministry official had been quoted as saying that there are more and more signs that the hostages were never hostages at all, but that this was a plan comprised by the Death Eaters and Mr Smith, a trap to kill as many Aurors as possible. “It is a tragedy that there have been so many deaths,” the Ministry official had said, “but our Aurors did what they had to do in order to defend their lives. In the end, the responsibility lies solely on the Death Eaters and the Smith family.”

On Thursday, the Prophet had published a new proposition by “officials high in the Ministry of Magic”, suggesting all known Slytherins to be tracked. “If we would have kept an eye on the Smith family,” an unnamed source in the Auror Office told the Prophet, “none of this would have happened. We would have identified their contact with the Death Eaters before their nefarious plan could be executed and - ironically enough - their own lives and their children’s lives would have been spared in the process. It is not just in order to catch Death Eaters and criminals that we need to keep an eye on the Slytherins, but to defend our entire society, Slytherins included.”

And now it was Friday, and the headline said that the Ministry was creating a preliminary system for tracking down suspicious movement within ‘select individuals and those who will be determined to belong to suspect groups.’

“And it’s about time, too,” Dean said with his mouth full of chips as he looked at the paper over Harry’s shoulder. He swallowed, then continued, “They should have done that back in May.”

“What? So last year they were making lists of Muggle-born and now you want them - “

“Come off it, Harry. No one’s talking about making lists of all Slytherins - as if we don’t know who they are,” Seamus said. “They’re talking about checking which ones of the Slytherins have ties to known Death Eaters, that’s all.”

“What, like Tonks’s mother?” Harry was now standing, facing Seamus and Dean. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that makes people give her grief!”

“No one’s questioning Tonks’s mother!” Seamus was now raising his voice as well. “But maybe the next time people like the Smiths prepare a little surprise for us we won’t be so lucky! I’d rather know what I’m going into!”

“They weren’t - four days ago everyone said the Death Eaters killed them before the fight even started! Now you’re listening to the Prophet and their conspiracy theories?”

“As I remember,” Anthony Goldstein interrupted, his voice calm, but also slightly cold, “it was you who told us how you got in there and saw that they were killed in the fight.”

“Yes, but - “

“But what? They never thought the Aurors would get so far in, and they paid the price!”

“They wouldn’t have kept their children there,” Harry said stubbornly.

“How do you know? These are Death Eaters, Harry. You know how they were all happy to sacrifice everyone they knew for Voldemort, including their kids,” Dean pointed out. “Who knows how Death Eaters think.”

“Forget about it,” Ron finally got up, his pudding finished. “Come on, guys. Do we really need to be fighting over this?”

Dean and Harry stared at each other for a little longer, then Dean backed down. “Nah,” he said, and grabbed another bowl of pudding. “They’re not worth it. They’re just Death Eaters.”

Harry threw another look at the Daily Prophet, then shrugged and left the table.  
He still needed to pack a bag.

“Have fun,” he told Dean and Seamus as he was leaving. Dean threw a pastry at him in response, and Harry laughed and left the room. The Auror trainees were assigned to help the Ministry in reorganising some of the mess left after last year, and this weekend it had been Dean and Seamus’s turn to suffer. Harry knew himself and Ron were scheduled for the next week, but right now, he didn’t care. Right now, they had the weekend off and both he and Ron were planning on spending it at Hogwarts.

This would be the first time Harry would go to Hogwarts since the battle, and as they packed the last of their things, he found himself oddly excited. Not just to see Ginny again, although he had been missing her terribly these past couple of weeks. No, seeing the school rebuilt, visiting Hagrid’s hut, even seeing the teachers again, the very idea had cheered him up considerably. The _Prophet_ could wait, Death Eaters and Slytherins didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that within an hour, they would be in Hogwarts.

They had Apparated, not to Hogwarts - which was impossible, anyway - but to the Hog’s Head. Harry wanted to say hello to Aberforth, and since they had to Apparate somewhere, Ron didn’t object. “We’ll bring the girls some butterbeer,” he suggested, but Harry was somewhat doubtful - the Hog’s Head’s butterbeer had more dust than could ever be cleaned, the last time he checked.

“Potter! Weasley!” Aberforth greeted them as they entered the pub.

“Hey, Ab,” Ron greeted him enthusiastically, and Harry just smiled at the old man in affection.

“How many butterbeers will it be?” Aberforth asked them, and Ron and Harry looked at each other with surprise. How did he - ?

“Since the two of you are on Auror training, I’m assuming you’re not just here to admire the view,” Aberforth muttered.

“Just the four,” Harry answered, laughing. Of course. Everyone knew what Harry Potter was up to these days.

Or at any other day, for that matter.

Harry gave the old barkeep a Galleon, and they said their goodbyes. Only when they left the Hog’s Head he had noticed there were five bottles in the bag, not four.

Ron shrugged when Harry showed him the bag. “Just don’t go and complain,” he warned his friend. Together, they walked the path leading to Hogwarts.

They could already see the school from the road. The heavy gates, the Astronomy Tower, the shadow of the Dark Forest. And as they got closer, they could see more. All the rubble had long been removed, the school rebuilt. It looked exactly as it did before Voldemort had brought his entire army of Death Eaters there.

They were a bit early, Harry realised as they walked through the empty grounds. Everyone was still in classes. Which was just fine with him - he had had his share of people staring at him in his six years of Hogwarts, but he was sure that however intolerable it felt then, it would be nothing compared to the amount of staring he would get this time. And he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“What do you say we go to the common room?” he asked Ron casually. “Surprise Hermione and Ginny.”

“Sure,” Ron said, and if he realised the real reason behind Harry’s wish not to stay out in the open, he said nothing.

But they didn’t quite make it to Gryffindor Tower. As they were walking through the Great Hall towards the stairs, they heard a voice calling to them, an all too familiar voice.

“What are you two doing outside of class?” Professor McGonagall saw the backs of two culprits and was quick to stop any possible skiving. “Classes don’t end until - oh my goodness!” she stopped mid-sentence as the two of them turned around, grinning widely. “Potter! Weasley!”

She rushed towards them, and - hugged them both. Harry returned the hug, completely confused. That was one thing he never expected of Minerva McGonagall.

It seemed Professor McGonagall had realised she had let herself get somewhat carried away, as she immediately pulled back, sporting her familiar stern expression. “You did not say you were coming,” she said.

“It was a bit unexpected, Professor,” Ron had managed to recover before Harry. “We didn’t know we’d get this weekend off, so we thought we’d drop in to say hello.”

“Yes, well, that was very thoughtful of you. I’m sure everyone will be excited to see you. As it is - “

“Professor!” she was interrupted by a voice - a very familiar voice. Hermione was rushing down the stairs. “Professor, there was a small - what are you doing here?!” Hermione had noticed Harry and Ron.

“Nice to see you, too,” Ron mumbled.

“You didn’t say you were coming!”

“We didn’t know until - “

“ - But why didn’t you send an owl or something? Oh, we thought we’d - “

“What’s happened, Ms Granger?”

“ - I mean, if we’d only known - “

“Ms Granger?” Professor McGonagall’s voice was becoming slightly impatient. “What did you wish to see me about?”

“Oh, there was an... accident. In Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Accident?”

“You’re needed in the Infirmary.”

“I see. Well, lead the way. Potter, Weasley, please wait in my office? The password is ‘kitty’.”

But Ron wanted to go with Hermione, of course. Harry was more reluctant to follow - if there was an accident serious enough to require the Headmistress to be called, everyone else would be there, too.

“See you later?” Harry mouthed to Ron and Hermione, and set out to McGonagall’s office, to wait there for the rest to show up. He found that he was glad that everyone was still in classes. He wondered what they would say to him. He had no doubt he would have an answer to that question - obviously, he would have to face it sooner or later. But right now, it was still comfortably far away in the unknown future.

For one second, he thought he had been wrong, that there were enough people outside classes, when a voice called to him, “Harry Potter!”. But as he turned around, he realised it was only the centaur, Firenze.

“Hullo, Firenze,” he greeted the centaur, who still appeared to be Hogwarts professor. “Still teaching, I see?”

“Yes,” Firenze nodded. “The war between the wizards might be over, but the centaurs do not forgive or forget.”

“I think you’ll find plenty of wizards don’t forgive and forget, either.”

“That is, of course, to be understood,” Firenze nodded again.

“That’s also written in the stars?” Harry asked whimsically - but Firenze did not understand the joke. His face darkened, and he seemed sad when he nodded.

“Yes, Harry Potter,” he answered. “Many things are written in the stars. And now, Mars is under the shadow of Jupiter.”

Harry stared at him blankly. “And that’s... bad?” he ventured.

“Things in the shadow have a tendency to whither and die,” Firenze answered. “Or come out of the shadows.”

“O-kay,” Harry muttered, not expected anything more intelligible from the Divination teacher. “Anyway, good to see you - gotta go,” he muttered again, and left towards McGonagall’s office. He didn’t feel like hearing prophecies of doom - or any kind of prophecies - at the moment. Or, if he was honest with himself, ever again. He’d had enough of prophecies to last a lifetime.

The Headmistress’s office, too, had been rebuilt. The old gargoyles, who Harry had last seen lying on the floor, unable to perform their duty, were once again reinstated, and eyeing him.

“Well, well,” said one gargoyle. “Who do we have here.”

“Kitty,” Harry repeated Professor McGonagall’s somewhat uncreative password.

“Well,” said the other gargoyle, “you look better from this angle, definitely. And less dirty.”

“Kitty,” Harry repeated, impatient.

“Although you could use a haircut,” the first gargoyle commented. “Don’t you think he could use a haircut?”

“Kitty,” Harry intoned dully, waiting for the gargoyles to get tired of the game.

“He seemed to have lost his sense of humour,” commented the second gargoyle, and moved to let Harry enter.

“And he doesn’t even say ‘thank you’!” the first shouted after him, but Harry didn’t care anymore. He was already at the door to the office.

It looked different. And not just because all of Dumbledore’s devices were gone. And not just because, in addition to the large portrait of Dumbledore, the walls also sported another familiar face, a newer portrait. The room had changed - it had become smaller. Less mysterious.

Harry didn’t consider that it may have been him who had changed.

The old Headmasters and Headmistresses on the walls feigned sleep. Harry knew better these days than to assume they really were sleeping, but he didn’t challenge them. Nor did he challenge Dumbledore - snoozing in his armchair, in his position over the fireplace, his half-moon spectacles over his nose, his long beard coming all the way to his belt.

He felt a slight pinch, looking at the portrait. A lot of things have changed since the last time he had seen the man - alive, and later, dead. But despite everything, everything he had learned, everything he had found out, he still missed him, his dearest teacher.

But his eye didn’t stay on Dumbledore for long. It was drawn to the other portrait. Alone of all of Hogwarts’ past Headmasters, Severus Snape did not feign sleep, did not snooze in an armchair. His black eyes were open, following Harry around the room.

“Everyone knows what you did now,” Harry said, and was surprised at the words that came out of his mouth. He had meant to praise, but it sounded like an accusation. “You’re a hero.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but still, he said nothing.

“I never - “ Harry didn’t quite know what he wanted to say, and so let the sentence roll without completion

“I think,” said a kind, familiar voice, “that whatever you have to say, you could say later. Severus isn’t going anywhere.”

Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled behind the half-moon glasses. “It is good to see you, Harry. I assume that for you it’s not quite the same, but I can still enjoy the spectacle.”

Snape snorted in his frame.

“And as I said, your conversation with Severus, as important as I am sure it is, can wait weeks, months, even years. Until you are ready. I do not believe Severus is interested in having that conversation any more than you do, although I daresay there will come the time you would feel differently.

“As long, of course, as you allow me the small courtesy of being present when that conversation takes place. I have found that not a lot happens to you once you are a portrait. It is only fair, I suppose. As I am not truly alive, I cannot expect to share the excitement of the living. And yet, it does become somewhat dull at times.”

But for better or for worse, Harry didn’t have a chance to reply. The door had opened, and in came Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

“Hey, you,” Ginny said, giving the portraits only a fraction of a glance, then focusing straight on him.

“Hey, you,” he replied, and found her hand.

“Young love,” Dumbledore said approvingly from his frame. Snape only snorted again. The comment didn’t go unnoticed by his friends, either: Ron rolled his eyes, and Hermione giggled. But Harry didn’t mind. Here at Hogwarts, with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, he could almost feel like he was home.


	7. Legacies

It was all the same, and completely different.

They were the five of them now, having tea in Hagrid’s hut. Hagrid, of course, who was besides himself with joy at seeing Harry and Ron, and got his best - and hardest - rock cakes. Harry, Ron and Hermione, as always. But also Ginny, who had never joined with them to those Friday afternoon teas, not until now.

And Fang was missing. One of Aragog’s offsprings had bitten him during the battle, Hagrid told them sadly, and then started going on about those ungrateful spiders. Harry, of course, was not surprised - after all, they had tried to eat _them_ in the past, so eating a dog was certainly not beyond them. Still, it was strange - not seeing Fang there, following Hagrid around.

And the topics of conversation had changed, too. Oh, at first they talked about the usual things: Hermione’s and Ginny’s classes (“Defence Against the Dark Arts is so easy now, but I’m really quite behind on potions! I don’t know how I will finish the essay for Professor Slughorn!”), Quidditch (“We’re going to win this year, no doubt. The Hufflepuff seeker isn’t any good, Ravenclaw’s keeper actually seems to get more goals inside than the opposing team, and just about everyone in the Slytherin team is new!”), and the teachers (“Professor Vector is the Head of Gryffindor House now, but we don’t see too much of her. And Professor Llewellyn is teaching Transfiguration, I don’t think she’s as good as McGonagall”).

“Speaking of Professor McGonagall,” Hermione said, taking another sip of Hagrid’s tea but making sure not to eat the cakes, “I really don’t envy her this year. She’s been running around since May, and it doesn’t seem to stop.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Well, with so many people repeating their year, and then some don’t, and then the larger number of first years - it’s been complete chaos.”

Ron looked at her, puzzled. “Why are there more first years this year?”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something - no doubt, a scathing remark on Ron’s lack of thinking, but Harry got there first. “The Muggle-borns,” he said quietly, and Ron’s mouth opened to the shape of a big O. “Of course.”

“That’s what I was helping McGonagall with during the summer,” Hermione said quietly. “Not the new first years, but those who already got their letter last year.”

All of them thought about it in silence for a moment. It was like Hermione said, Harry realised. Life went on in the wizarding world when they were on the run and hunting Horcruxes. But that life was wrong, too.

At any given year, Harry knew, there were about 40 or 50 first years at Hogwarts, and of them at least 15 were Muggle-borns. Some of those weren’t completely unaware of the magical world - families that already had at least one wizard or witch in them would have at least a vague awareness that there was something else going on. But still, there were those - like Hermione - who had known nothing of the magical world. For them, it was not enough to send a letter by owl. No, someone had to come in person and explain things. Calm the parents down. Tell them that it was a good thing - the child they had been worried about all these years didn’t have anything wrong in them, they were simply... _different_.

Most of those kids had already got their visit before the Ministry fell in August.

“Do you know how difficult it was to go back there this year and convince the parents to still send their children to Hogwarts?” Hermione said. “Some of them didn’t quite understand what was the delay last year, so they were mainly concerned about their kid having to repeat a class. But others...” Others have realised that Hogwarts didn’t just retract their offer, and perhaps, some of them had been watched by Death Eaters and had noticed what was going on, or were even contacted by them. Those were the parents that realised that something terrible had happened in the magical world, and that their children might suffer as a result.

“There were three families McGonagall asked me to talk to specifically. To explain from a Muggle-born point of view, I guess.”

“Did you tell them what had happened?” Harry asked, curious.

“Yeah, I did. They have a right to know. And they ended up saying yes. But now there are Muggle-born first years who should have started last year and are now hearing the stories from the rest of the kids about how it was like here last year, and then there’s the real Muggle-born first years, and they’re... Well, let’s just say it’s a very interesting year,” she finished diplomatically. “And those who weren’t afraid before are afraid now, and those who were afraid before are absolutely terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Death Eaters, of course! They hear from the older kids about all those attacks, like the Smith family last week, and they don’t really understand what’s going on. And it hasn’t escaped anyone that there are no Muggle-born first years in Slytherin this year, and a lot of the kids saw the headlines in the Prophet...”

“And they ask why not arrest all of them,” Harry said darkly.

“Not arrest, no,” Hermione said, slightly uncomfortable, “but I’m not sure keeping an eye on known Death Eater sympathisers is such a bad idea. I heard it was Will Jones who suggested that.”

“Figures,” Harry muttered.

“You know, Harry,” Hermione said with an edge to her voice, “I’m not sure he’s got the wrong idea.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Both Harry and Ron stared at her.

“I mean, yes, he’s doing things in a rather noisy way - “

“He’s been a pain ever since Kingsley took over!”

“Has he? What exactly did Kingsley try to do that he stopped?”

“And anyway,” Ron couldn’t find anything to answer her with, so he grabbed at the next possible argument, “he’s the one who made us take the physical test before starting Auror training!”

“Yes, I know,” she said, and there was something strange in her voice.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Well, it’s just... don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, but I don’t think it was such a bad idea.”

“Oh, so now you think Harry’s a nutter?!” Ron demanded, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Of course not, you know I don’t doubt Harry. It’s just that... Look, Harry, no one knows how the Killing Curse works. I checked in the library, and there’s a lot about how the Cruciatus Curse and the Imperius Curse work, but all anyone ever knows about the Killing Curse is that it kills. Getting checked by a Healer didn’t hurt, did it?”

Harry remained silent, while Ron muttered, “I can’t believe this.”

“And besides... I thought his solution was the best one, considering the Daily Prophet’s campaign.”

“What? Giving in?”

“No, Ron, not giving in. Although Kingsley was about to ask Harry to do the check-up anyway. But this way everyone had to do it, Rita Skeeter can’t spread any more rumours, and Harry wasn’t singled out. No one’s suggesting anything about Harry anymore, do they?”

“Admit it, Hermione, you only support Jones because - “

“Because what?” Hermione’s nostrils flared. Ron was entering dangerous territory, and he knew it.

“Because... well, because...”

“Because he’s Muggle-born? Yes, I support him because he’s Muggle-born. Finally there’s someone in the Ministry who doesn’t treat us as something embarrassing and prefer to ignore the whole issue. Finally there’s someone in the Ministry who’s dedicated to get the best for _us_.”

“Come off it, Hermione,” Ginny interfered. “None of us ever treated you differently because you’re Muggle-born.”

“None of you,” Hermione insisted.

After a minute or so of silence, the five found better, safer topics of conversation.

But this was not to be their last encounter with the real world during this visit. Hogwarts no longer was a safe place from the problems outside, not only because the topics themselves were important - but because of the people who had been there. As they were walking back from Hagrid’s hut, they ran into the last Herbology class of the day, leaving Greenhouse Five - the Slytherin Seventh-years.

And between them, repeating her last year at Hogwarts, was Pansy Parkinson, followed by a small group of friends.

No one said anything - no one had to. Both groups, Harry and his friends and Pansy with hers, froze in place, right in front of the Greenhouse door. And each and every one of them had the same thing in mind - the last time Pansy Parkinson had seen Harry Potter. All around them, kids from other houses, who were already out of their class and ready to enjoy the last rays of sunshine for the day, stopped as well.

The whispering went through the crowd, and whenever the whispers stopped, silence fell. For the first time in living memory, the Hogwarts grounds were completely silent, despite being full of students. It was as if Pansy’s words had just been spoken again. _But he’s there!_ she shouted then. _Potter’s there! Someone grab him!_ And every one of those who had been in the Great Hall that terrible day could hear those words now, echoing in the silence. _Someone grab him_.

After a moment’s hesitation, Pansy raised her head, looking directly at Harry. There was no remorse in her expression. No regret. It was as if she was challenging him. Say something. Go on. Say it like you really think, Potter.

But Harry said nothing, just looked back at her.

And then, Pansy spoke.

“You probably only did this because your brain is addled by all the curses thrown at you,” she said clearly, “but thank you. For Draco.”

“They should have been told what happened,” he said in a measured voice, not removing his eyes from hers. “It wasn’t right, to let him go to Azkaban for the rest of his life.”

Finally, she lowered her eyes, breaking eye contact. “You’re the only Gryffindor left in this school, Potter,” she said. “The only _true_ Gryffindor,” and was gone.

**-X-**

 

“It’s Potter!”

“Harry Potter’s here, I’ve seen him!”

“Guess who I passed in the corridor earlier? Harry Potter!”

And so on and on, the whispering went. Harry was right - it was worse than anything he had experience until then. Much worse.

At first, they sat in the common room, but that soon became impossible. The whole of Gryffindor House came there, and sat around them, listening to every word, even when that word was “your turn” while playing exploding snap. And whenever he tried to leave, everyone would gather around him and start asking questions, or want to shake his hand, or say “thank you”.

Dinner was even worse, even though Harry didn’t believe that was possible. Harry and Ron sat in the Gryffindor table, and were immediately surrounded not just by Gryffindors, but by Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws as well, so much that Professor McGonagall had to say, quite impatiently, that students must be seated at their own house table.

But the end of dinner also suggested an opportunity. Unnoticed for a second, Harry went under his invisibility cloak, and all of a sudden, he was free. He didn’t go back to the common room. Instead, he sat by the Great Hall, waiting for everyone to disappear. Ginny was supposed to come back after a few minutes, gathering his and Ron’s stuff from the common room, ready to walk them back to the Hogwarts gates. And after a while, he could take off his cloak and wait, as everyone disappeared back into their common rooms, and Hogwarts was quiet again.

Quiet - except for one small kid.

“I’m Jimmy,” the kid introduced himself.

“Hi,” Harry said, slightly irritate at the kid, and even more at himself. He shouldn’t have taken off the cloak.

“Everyone’s talking about you. Who are you?”

Now Harry was paying attention to the kid. “You’re Muggle-born?” he asked, and the kid nodded. “First year?” The kid nodded again.

“Wow.”

He never thought about that. Muggle-born kids always felt a bit overwhelmed, a bit left out. He had felt that way, too, when he was eleven and just starting Hogwarts - even though everyone knew his name even then. It felt like a different lifetime now, but he could still remember that feeling, of being utterly lost in that wonderful world that had opened up in front of him.

But this kid - this was something completely different. He had missed the war, he had missed Voldemort. It was good, Harry was sure. Very good. For a moment, he had wondered what the lives of the Muggle-born kids who were supposed to start Hogwarts a year ago had looked like, how the lives of the Muggle-born kids who had now started their third year were shaped. He had a difficult, eventful time at Hogwarts, no doubt, but at least he had some sort of an idea what was going on. These kids - they fell right into the middle of it, with no one explaining anything.

And now, they were completely left out. They got their letter, just like he did. They got to go, just like he did. And then all they had heard about was war, and terrible dark dead wizards, and a battle everyone had witnessed - and they didn’t know what to make of it.

And now this kid had plucked up the courage to come to him, the one everyone was talking about, and ask him the simplest of questions. Who are you. And Harry wasn’t really sure how to answer it.

“I’m Harry,” he said simply.

“They say you’re this great soldier. You won the war, all by yourself,” the kid looked at him, eyes open wide. “You don’t look tall enough,” he said critically, and the continued without waiting for Harry’s comment. “They say you _died_. But Professor Vector says there’s no magic that can bring back the dead.”

“She’s right,” Harry thought for a second of his parents, of Remus, of Sirius. Of the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, hanging in the Headmistress’s office. “There isn’t.”

“Then how could you die and still be alive?” the kid asked with scepticism, and Harry wasn’t quite sure whether he was questioning Professor Vector’s explanation, or his own story.

“I’m not a great soldier,” Harry avoided the question. “Don’t believe them when they say that. It was mostly luck.”

“They say you killed the evilest wizard of all times, right here in the school.”

“Yeah.”

“And that you fought dragons, and something called Dementors, and giants! I bet that was cool.”

Harry looked at the kid, and the boy - only eleven years old, only a boy - seemed to cower slightly from his gaze. “There’s a lot of people here who saw the Battle last year,” he said quietly. “Did you talk to some of them?”

“Yeah,” the kid hesitated.

“Did they say it was cool?”

“No. There’s this kid, Dennis Creevey - “

“ - His brother died in May,” Harry pointed out, and the kid looked abashed for a moment.

“He doesn’t talk about his brother, though,” he said sullenly.

What did this kid know? He wasn’t like Lavender, he wasn’t like Cho, and he definitely wasn’t like Dean, or Seamus, or Lee Jordan, or any of them. He didn’t see what war was all about. And maybe, Harry thought for a moment, maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it was alright that eleven-year-old kids could hear the stories about what had happened here and think it was _cool_ , because what that really meant was that they didn’t understand. Four months have passed and already this kid could not imagine the horror of Lord Voldemort, could not realise the danger he would have been in if things would have turned out differently, could not comprehend the pain of the last months, the funerals and memorials and the people they would never see again.

No, this kid had plenty of time to learn. It was a good thing he didn’t know it, not yet.

“Well, if Dennis ever talks about his brother, just listen,” Harry said, and the kid ran off on his own way.

The kid probably didn’t spend any more time thinking of that conversation, perhaps other than telling his classmates that he had spoken to Harry Potter, and that “it wasn’t such a big deal!”. But it stayed in Harry’s mind, all through that evening, when he and Ron went back to Grimmauld Place.

“How long, do you think, before people stopped being afraid of Voldemort?” he asked Ron that night. “They still don’t say his name - not everyone, anyway. You think it will just be a story one day? A children’s tale?”

But if he expected an answer, he didn’t get one. Ron was already asleep. Harry sighed and tried to sleep as well, and didn’t bring up that subject again. Not in the morning, not at the Burrow, where they had spent the rest of the weekend, and not once they were back in Manchester for their training. Harry kept that question to himself, but almost every night, he wondered about it.

He didn’t have much time to wonder about it, though. Their nights were becoming shorter, their days much more tiresome. It was physical training, more than he ever experienced, even at the height of the Quidditch season. And there were classes, harder than his O.W.L.s year, harder than anything he’d ever done at Hogwarts. Dawlish had said on that first week that while they knew their students had practical experience that was not usually available to Auror candidates, many of them still lacked the theoretical basis, “And what with your training being shorter than usual, expect a lot of hard work.”

‘Hard work’ wasn’t the right word to describe it, Harry thought one evening as he collapsed again at his bunk, too tired to even talk to Ron or any of the others. He was too tired to think of a better term for ‘hard work’ these days, so instead he just voiced his agreement when Seamus complained - once again - at the work, and Dean wondered whether becoming an Auror was really worth it.

“This is nothing,” Neville gave his opinion, and earned himself a choir of incredulous comments as a result. “I had to work a lot harder for my O.W.L.s... and we were a lot more worried then.”

“But school’s over,” Seamus interrupted. “We’re not supposed to do so much hard work.”

“Speak for yourself,” was Neville’s reply.

And Harry, despite appreciating Neville’s point, still would have liked some more free time and less work.

And it wasn’t just the hard work - ten days after the incident with the Death Eaters, they had found themselves around another house, and the Ministry’s top Aurors surrounded it, full of tension and worry. No one wanted to repeat the scenario, even if the department didn’t come out all the worse from it.

But the house seemed quiet - almost abandoned.

“What if they’re not there?” Seamus paced up and down, stopping every five seconds to ask the same questions. “What if it’s a trap? What if they know we’re here?!”

“Sit down,” Ron hissed at Seamus, but he kept on pacing.

“What if they get closer and the whole thing blows up?”

“Seamus!” Harry whispered at Seamus. “You’re making us all nervous, and you’re making it impossible to hear what’s going on. Sit down!”

Seamus glared at Harry for a moment, but eventually sat down. He still tapped on his foot - clearly getting on everyone else’s nerves, especially Ron and Anthony - but at least he was relatively quiet.

Harry concentrated again on looking at the house. What _was_ going on? He also wondered whether this was a trap, whether the Aurors were lured there by Death Eaters.

But no - all of a sudden someone left the house - and it wasn’t a Death Eater. It wasn’t even a wizard - it was a goblin.

Five Aurors jumped on the goblin as soon as he left the house. Harry got up, trying to get closer. He couldn’t hear anything from their perimeter - and the house didn’t seem to hold Death Eaters in it.

When he arrived, Dawlish was questioning the goblin - which Harry was surprised to see was Griphook.

“But what were you doing there?” Dawlish demanded.

Griphook gave him an apathetic look. “Wizards have taken the goblins’ right to carry wands, Wizard,” he said in a measured voice, “not to live under a roof.”

More goblins were coming out of the house - five, six, seven - Harry counted them and couldn’t help but wonder what so many goblins were doing so far away from civilisation. By that time, Ron had joined him, counting the goblins, looking at Harry with concern.

“How many of them are there?” he whispered to Harry.

Harry shrugged. He was looking at Griphook, who was arguing with Dawlish. Oh, he wanted to know what they were doing there - but he could see where this was going, especially with Dawlish’s temper, and he didn’t relish the thought of the possible outcome.

“His name is Griphook,” he called towards Dawlish, and both Auror and goblin looked at him in surprise. “He helped us against Voldemort last year.”

Griphook stared at Harry as long as Ron did. They both, of course, noted the part that was missing from Harry’s statement - how Griphook betrayed them in the end. But Harry couldn’t hold too much of a grudge towards the goblin. After all, they were planning on doing the same thing, in a manner of speaking. He kept his gaze directly at Griphook - if the goblin wanted to confess to the second part, he was invited to. But Griphook remained silent.

Dawlish, on the other hand, stared from Harry to Griphook to Ron. He could see that there was something else going on, of course. This was not a reunion of old friends, nor of people who had gladly fought together against a common enemy. But neither one was filling him in, so in the end he shrugged and let the goblins go.

“Just don’t let us catch you here again,” he grumbled, and the goblins laughed unkindly. There wasn’t much Dawlish could do about their presence there, and they all were aware of it.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked Griphook quietly as the goblin walked past him and back into the house.

“Mind your own business, wizard,” another goblin shouted at him, but Griphook ignored the other goblin and considered Harry’s question for a moment.

“Taking care of the goblins, Harry Potter,” he said. “Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Sword of Gryffindor is, would you?”

As Harry shook his head, Griphook flashed a smile that made him all the more uncomfortable.

He didn’t have much time to consider his discomfort, though - the very same day they were already back to classes and training. And by the end of that week he was pleased - almost happy - when it became his and Ron’s turn to go over old files in the Auror office.

All of them had to do it - it was part of the training, Dawlish said, but Harry suspected it was a way to get a chore done which no one else wanted to do. The files were the Ministry’s records of all the Wizengamot trials and Azkaban incarcerations, as old as they had kept them. The whole records room had been thrown into a mess during Thicknesse’s period as Minister for Magic, and now needed reorganisation - boxes and boxes that needed careful alphabetical sorting. The records room was protected from magicking all of the records at once, Dawlish sighed, so that no one could abuse it, and now the wizards in charge were hopelessly flooded with work. As a result, every other weekend a different pair of Auror trainees was sent to do the unending task, and Harry and Ron, the fourth pair to set foot in the records room, couldn’t see any signs of the work that’s already been done.

“I take it all back. Send me on another three-day camouflage training in the forest. Please!” Ron said, horrified at the boxes.

“Come on,” said Harry in resignation, but sharing the sentiment.

Most of the work was incredibly boring. Indeed, it was the mental break Harry had been craving for days. But every once in a while, something interesting came up.

“Look,” Ron showed him a paper, “Ludo Bagman’s trial records,” and then turned to read them in interest. And a couple of minutes later, another paper was given to him. Prisoner report for Sirius Black. Harry found himself looking at the photograph for a while, sirius looking at the camera in what must have seemed at the time like apathy, but Harry could recognise as grief and despair.

A short time later he had amused himself with an arrest warrant for Albus Dumbledore, dated three years ago - after the incident with the DA, he realised. He showed it to Ron, who was too busy reading something else - the protocols of Harry’s own hearing with the Wizengamot from that same year. Harry didn’t mind Ron reading the protocols - he had already told Ron at the time everything that had happened - and instead spent the time looking at Dumbledore, winking at him from behind the half-moon spectacles. With a pinch to his heart, he had sent the warrant to lie in the right drawer.

The next paper turned just as difficult, but for other reasons. A new paper, this was Draco Malfoy’s trial protocol. Harry looked at the verdict - guilty - and anger rose in him.

“Hey, at least he only got six months,” Ron commented when he saw what Harry was looking at now. “That already made a lot of people unhappy.”

“Still six months too much,” Harry muttered and sent the paper on its way, to Ron’s shrugs.

“And here’s his aunt,” he said and showed Harry a paper with Bellatrix’s photograph on it. She didn’t look like herself at all - not like Harry had known her. This was Bellatrix before Azkaban - still terrible, but beautifully so. He had only seen her once like that, in Dumbledore’s memory. At her trial. He shrugged and sent that paper on its way, too, and picked another one: Walden Macnair.

“What is this doing here?” he wondered, and showed it to Ron. Walden Macnair’s trial had been going on for months now. It was one of the more embarrassing cases for the Ministry, as Macnair had been a Ministry employee for years, and - as Kingsley had to keep on reminding the _Prophet_ , would continue to be considered a Ministry employee until he was found guilty. Between that and his age, the trial had been postponed a dozen times, and Rita Skeeter in particular had been constantly harassing everyone in the Ministry over it, including Kingsley and Will Jones.

“And speaking of Will Jones, look at this. The next time you give him a hard time,” Ron shoved another paper into Harry’s hands - William Jones. Full with the protocols of his arrest and trial in front of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, and his Azkaban record.

Harry read in silence - and only then noticed something. “Look,” he showed Ron a small note on the file. “It says he was in Hufflepuff here.”

“Yeah, so?”

“No, but - why would it say which House he was in?”

“Maybe the Death Eaters decided to keep records of that, too. Who knows?”

“No...” Harry tried to remember. He had seen records kept by the Death Eaters, the year before, when he broke into Umbridge’s office; they held the blood status alright, and here it was too - but there was no House information there, he was sure of it.

“Give me another one.”

“Okay, how about this - oh, you’d love this one. Lucius Malfoy.”

And there it was. Blood status: Pure-blood, House: Slytherin.

Sturgis Podmore. Blood status: Half-blood. House: Ravenclaw.

Alastor Moody. Blood Status: Pure-blood. House: Gryffindor.

Harry was distracted for a moment, reading of another old altercation in which Moody had been involved in, but soon sent the paper to its way and looked at Ron. “I’m sure this wasn’t part of the records last year,” he said.

“Maybe you should ask Kingsley about it,” Ron suggested with an unconvinced tone, more to get Harry to shut up than because he saw significance in it, Harry thought. But still, the idea was a good one. He’ll ask Kingsley what exactly was going on in the room of records.

But it took another whole week until Harry had the chance to see Kingsley. At the end of another gruelling Friday, he had decided to go and visit Kingsley at the Ministry. He got there just in time to see the heads-of-offices leaving, and from Kingsley’s expression as he saw him, he had just had a day as exhausting as Harry’s.

He was, in fact, still having it, as the end of the meeting did not stop Will Jones from having one last thing to say.

“... again, Minister, thank you for your support. This new law will be very beneficial for everyone - oh, Mr Potter!” Jones beamed at him and shook his hand with enthusiasm.

“Mr Jones,” Harry said coldly.

“I trust the Auror training has been going well?”

“Yes.”

“I bet things worked out right at the end. I was quite happy to be able to find the best solution, Mr Potter!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The medical exam! Finding a way out of that entire mess... “

“I rather thought a way out of the mess would be to ignore the Prophet on this one,” Harry said, and Jones just laughed.

“Come now, Mr Potter. Most of us can’t simply ignore public opinion... and you would do well not to, too. But I really must be going now. Kingsley, thanks again, Mr Potter, a pleasure - as always.” And he was gone.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “And how’s your day been?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm. Harry laughed, and Kingsley showed him inside his office.

“What was that all about? New laws?”

“Oh, we’ll announce it later. Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

He got a biscuit to go with it, and Kingsley sat down in his own chair, in front of Harry. “I take it this isn’t a simple social call,” he said quietly, but with a hint of fatigue.

“Yeah... there was something I wanted to ask you.”

“You’re rather late,” was the response, and when Kingsley saw his puzzled expression, he continued, “I thought you were coming here to see me about the Smith family.”

“Yeah - no - well, sort of. But not quite.”

“Oh?”

“We - Ron and me - were going over the stuff in the records room, and I couldn’t help but notice there’s House information on everyone’s sheets.”

Kingsley considered him for a moment. “It’s just for standard Ministry bureaucracy. Statistical information.”

“It wasn’t there last year,” Harry looked straight at Kingsley.

“It was another one of Will’s... solutions,” Kingsley said carefully. “We added them the Friday after the Smith... incident.”

“So you are keeping track of Slytherins.”

“We’re not keeping track of Slytherins. If you would have looked at the sheets closely - “

“Everyone’s got them, yeah,” Harry interrupted. “Still tells you who’s a Slytherin and who isn’t.”

“That would be a side-effect of this information, yes,” Kingsley answered, still just as careful.

“And you’re just going to let them do it?”

To Harry’s surprise, Kingsley just sighed. “People are afraid of the Death Eaters, Harry.”

“There have been five attacks in the past four months.”

“These days, one attack is too much. People are scared. Scared of going back to the way things used to be - “

“ - I know all about the way things used to be, Minister. So what, this is a public opinion thing? Like Scrimgeour wanting me to show my support for the Ministry?”

“No,” Kingsley’s voice had become sharp, “these are the demands of the different heads of departments and offices. They’re scared, too.”

“You mean Will Jones - “

“Will Jones has lost his wife and is now raising both his children alone. And as the highest-ranking Muggle-born Ministry official, he is probably the first to be attacked if the remaining Death Eaters decide to go after the Ministry. He has a good reason to be afraid, Harry.”

“How many Death Eaters are there out there?”

Kingsley didn’t answer, and Harry tried again. “How many? Kingsley?”

“We don’t know,” the Minister for Magic said. “And that’s a part of the problem. It could be three people - for all we know, with the death of the Death Eaters in the Smith case, the last Death Eaters have been killed. Or maybe there are still twenty or thirty out there, all planning their revenge.”

“You’d think it was Voldemort himself that’s still out there,” Harry said bitterly.

Kingsley sighed again, and his expression, that had been on the verge of exasperation until that point, softened. “Your life has been shaped by Voldemort since before you were born, Harry,” he said. “And you have fought him, in person, more than once. He was important to you because you were important to him. And some of us - the Aurors, the Order, some of your friends, we’ve done it, too. But a lot of these people out there weren’t important enough, Harry. They weren’t visited by Voldemort, or any of his high ranking Death Eaters. At most, they’ve seen some snatchers, or a low-ranking Death Eater. Voldemort is dead, and for you, that’s the end. But all they knew are Death Eaters, and if the Death Eaters are still out there, they won’t feel safe, even if they’re no longer organised or led by the most terrible wizard of our time.”

“So, what now?” Harry asked, still unsatisfied. “This continues until we know all Death Eaters have been captures?”

“It looks like it, yes,” the softness has disappeared from Kingsley’s voice. The interview was over.

“And how will we know that?” Harry muttered as he left his office.


	8. Death Eaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit violence (torture) on this one.

“Tonight on Death Eater watch - were the attacks on a family of four in St Bartholomew’s Green last week actually the result of Death Eater activity in the area? Our correspondent reports on new development from the Ministry’s investigation.  
“Last Saturday, as we - “

“Oh, shut that thing off,” Harry snapped.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “As future Aurors,” he pointed out, “it’s important we keep track of possible Death Eater activity, Harry. We need to be on our toes.”

“This isn’t being on our toes, though, this is looking for something to be paranoid about.”

“Harry, don’t get the wrong idea, I have a lot of respect for you, but - “

“ - But you think I’m a nutter.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, look on the bright side, no one thinks any less of Dumbledore and everyone knows he was off his rocker,” Ron offered.

“See? You’re in good company. Now shut up and let me listen to DE Watch.”

DE Watch started about a week ago, and had already become the most popular programme on the Wireless Wizarding Network’s programming schedule. Harry thought it was like people looked for reasons to be afraid. Looked to find the Death Eaters under their bed. The DE Watch did not bother too much with the facts, he had pointed out countless times to his friends during that week. On their first broadcast, they had reported a house in Bath as one that had been blown up by Death Eaters, while the incident had been determined by the Ministry to be a simple gas leak in the Muggle house next door. The next evening, they accidentally reported a criminal murder between Muggles as a death of a Muggle-born wizard by the same name at the hands of Death Eaters. “What Death Eater would kill another with a knife?” Harry wondered loudly after they interviewed the Muggle-born wizard of the same name as the victim, but no one paid him much attention.

And they paid him even less after the third night, when a Muggle-born wizard had been killed in his home by the Killing Curse, in what a short investigation by the Ministry had proved beyond doubt to be the work of a renegade Death Eater.

This time there was no denying it, as the Death Eater had been caught shortly after by Aurors. The Ministry hurried to publicise the arrest - as well as the method used to achieve it. The Death Eater, Jugson, had gone into hiding after the attack, staying at the house of his Slytherin relatives, the Davis family. The arrest had been made possible thanks to Will Jones’s new measurement, he had told the _Prophet_ proudly - charms had been put around houses of individuals who were singled out as possible allies of Death Eaters - “family members or people otherwise connected,” he said mysteriously. The system worked much like the systems employed by Voldemort himself, detecting a person with a Dark Mark on their arm, and the charm broke, but instead of blocking or allowing entrance, it had alerted the Auror Office. Gawain Robards had then sent Aurors to arrest Jugson - and all other members of the Davis family.

Harry and the rest of the Auror trainees did not see Jugson’s interrogation, but they were allowed to watch as Tracey Davis, Jugson’s niece, was interrogated by the Ministry. Harry found it awkward - like many of the other Slytherins, he never really talked to Tracey, despite her being in his year at Hogwarts, and what little interaction he’d had with her had been unpleasant. But still it felt weird, to watch now as she was being interrogated. He knew her. She wasn’t one of the Death Eaters who stood there, waiting in anticipation for Voldemort to murder him. She’d been in potions class with him for five years. They weren’t in the same room with her, she couldn’t see his face, but still, Harry felt uncomfortable watching her face.

Tracey, unaware she was being watched, was only looking at her interrogator. “Told you,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t know anything about Death Eaters. He just showed up at the door, said he came to say hello and see my mum, so I let him in.”

Proudfoot, who had been given the task of questioning her, seemed less than impressed. “You know nothing about Death Eaters? He has spent most of your lifetime in Azkaban.”

“Yeah, well, you know, people are released,” she shrugged.

“Released?” Proudfoot spluttered. “Released?! He broke out!”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” she said, still apathetic. “I never really met him.”

And on and on it continued. After two hours of this kind of dialogue, Harry thought banging his head against the wall would bring better results. Tracey Davis, it was clear to him, didn’t actually know anything. Oh, she didn’t say she didn’t know anything. She seemed much too proud for it. But the little she did know she told them gladly. It was whenever she turned proud and arrogant that Harry felt she had no idea what to say, no idea how to reply.

He couldn’t see any point in keeping her there. But obviously, the Aurors disagreed.

By the end of three hours, she’d had enough as well. Her arrogance was gone, her pride had gone, and her self-assurance was replaced in doubt - and even fear. “Please can we do this another day? I’m tired,” she said more than once, but Proudfoot continued.

“Until we get the truth out of you, you’re not going anywhere,” he said angrily, waving again at her contradicting statements from the previous three hours.

“Learn anything today?” Dawlish walked into the room and waved his wand, causing the image to disappear.

“Yeah, how not to have a useful interrogation,” Padma muttered. She and the others were just as tired as Tracey was by now.

“Death Eaters don’t break in that easily,” Dawlish smiled.

“Death Eaters? She’s not a Death Eater. She may be stupid, but not a Death Eater,” Harry objected.

“Yes, she was too young to join them,” Dawlish said, “but I think, based on this little demonstration, we can all be assured she would have joined, given the chance.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ron stepped on his foot. “I want to get to dinner today, please,” he whispered in Harry’s ear.

He wasn’t being too cautious - just the night before they were all thirty minutes late for dinner, because Harry decided to finally confront Dawlish about the Smith family, and his own announcement that night. After thirty minutes of argument, Dawlish cut Harry in the middle of a sentence and sent them all to dinner. “You need to wake up early,” he grumbled, and left the room without another word.

“C’mon, Harry,” Lavender said later, when they were back in their dormitories, “there’s a time and a place.”

Harry’s cards exploded with a bang. It was a sign of how distracted he was - usually, he was one of the fastest players of Exploding Snap. It was Friday evening, and for the first time this week, they didn’t all fall to bed early, knowing they could sleep late the next day.

“I’m just saying - “ Harry started, and was silenced loudly by ten people.

“We know what you’re saying,” Katie said, shuffling her cards.

“Yeah,” Seamus piped in. “We’ve been hearing it all - week - “ BANG - “long.”

“I didn’t know you liked Tracey Davis,” Cho muttered, and managed to finish her turn without a single card exploding, a feat that had become more and more rare as the days grew longer and the trainees more tired.

“I didn’t - I don’t.”

“Well, why do you care then?” Seamus said. “Her uncle’s a Death Eater, she obviously doesn’t care - “

“ - but she didn’t do anything herself - “

“ - I mean, if my uncle was a Death Eater, I definitely wouldn’t let him in - “

“ - She shouldn’t be punished because he’s a Death Eater - “

“ - You won’t catch any Death Eaters in my house!”

BANG -

“ - And we don’t even know - “

“Oh, give it a rest,” Neville spoke, and everyone looked in surprised. So far, Neville was the only one, apart from Ron, who hadn’t told Harry off loudly. Harry wasn’t sure whether this was because Neville agreed with him or because, after the DA and everything they went through, he didn’t want to contradict Harry on these matters. From the look of things, Harry surmised gloomily, it was apparently the later.

“Look, Harry, I agree with you that not all Slytherins should be suspects, and I’m not thrilled about what the Ministry is doing either - “

“ - Thank you!”

“ - But Harry, Tracy knew her uncle was a Death Eater, she knew he escaped Azkaban, he was there at the Ministry when Sirius died, and he was there at Hogwarts, and she let him in. Stop fighting for her. And stop fighting for Malfoy, either.”

“Malfoy?!”

The cards around them started exploding in earnest, but no one was paying any attention to them anymore.

“What does Malfoy have to do with anything?”

“It was the same thing with Malfoy. He was a Death Eater, and you had to go there in his trial and talk in his favour.”

“You weren’t there at the Malfoy Manor, Neville.” It didn’t come out the way Harry meant it to. “I mean, I know, all the things you guys went through, but what I saw there wasn’t someone who wanted to be a Death Eater.”

“Perhaps. But on this one Ron and Hermione also think you’re mad, and they were there in Malfoy Manor,” Neville shrugged. “Just... stop defending them.”

Harry didn’t answer, and the room went back to playing Exploding Snap in complete silence, other than the odd explosion.

In fact, Harry didn’t say a word to anyone that night, until he came out of the shower. Toothbrush in his mouth, he didn’t notice someone had stopped next to him - Neville.

“Harry,” he said, and Harry spat the toothpaste in his mouth to the basin and turned around. “Look, I’m sorry I came out at you like that today.”

“It’s alright,” Harry said, slightly short tempered, but trying not to take it out on Neville. Of all people, Neville was one of those who least deserved it.

“It’s just, every time you’re talking for them, I’m thinking, what would have happened if Bellatrix lived.”

Harry was taken aback. “I would never defend her, or anything she did. You know that, Neville! It’s not just your parents - she killed Sirius! You think I could - “

“No, I don’t,” Neville said. “But you need to understand what you sound like. All these people, they’ve hurt others. You’re the one responsible for me being here today - I never would have been able to get all those things if you hadn’t taught us, and if you hadn’t been there and stood up for what you believed when everyone told you you’re wrong. You know I’ve always admired that.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry said quietly.

“And I know, when you told me to kill the snake, you were going...” Neville’s voice trailed. “You’ve lived through much more than anyone else, Harry, and that’s just another reason to admire you.”

“I don’t want you to admire me.”

“I know you don’t. It isn’t up to you,” Neville said stubbornly, and neither he nor Harry could help but laugh. And then Neville turned serious again. “But it’s hard. Hearing you talking about the Slytherins like that. After everything they’ve done.”

“Yeah...”

“Still friends?”

Harry could see the question really burned in Neville - really worried him. “Of course,” he said simply, and Neville smiled in relief.

“Come on, time to go to sleep.”

But the next day, they found themselves waking up early again. At 5 a.m., Dawlish showed up with one word. “Trouble.”

Sleep deprived and exhausted, they got out of bed, dressed up as quickly as possible, and within five minutes met in the dining room. Dawlish created another Portkey, and they were gone.

The found themselves in a forest. The sun had just come out, but the forest was still dark - and cold. They could only see enough to make out groups of people, huddled in the forest. And next to them, someone was lying on the ground, unmoving.

“Lumos,” Harry muttered, and his wand lit up and shone its light on the body. It was Proudfoot. His eyes were open wide, unseeing. His leg was bent in a strange angle. He was dead.

Lavender flicked her wand. A blanket appeared out of thin air, and covered the body. But none of them stopped looking at the blanket, thinking of the body beneath it.

They had seen the man not three days ago.

Gawain Robards approached the group, looked for a second at the blanket, and then at the anxious faces before him. “It’s Rowle,” he said shortly. “He’s somewhere in this forest. We’ve put an Apparition stopping charm over the forest, but its range is limited. We need to catch Rowle before he manages to get out.

“Split into two groups. It’s safer that way - one of you might be able to spot him before he spots you. Have no mistake - if he sees you, he _will_ kill you. Safety in numbers. Remember - he can curse anyone he sees. You need to make sure it’s not one of ours that you take down.”

They nodded, and split into two groups. Harry, Ron, Cho, Lavender and Neville were in one group, the others in the other.

They started walking into the forest. “Wands out,” Harry whispered, and the rest followed. “Constant vigilance!” Ron muttered, and Cho giggled.

“Shh!” Harry whispered again, and they were silent. Quietly, they walked amongst the woods.

The forest was silent, dark and forbidding. Harry could barely hear his own footsteps on the leaves. Yesterday’s rain had turned the earth wet and muddy, masking their footsteps - but also the footsteps of any possible enemy. And the deeper they got in, the darker it got, even though by now the sun must be getting high in the sky, lighting the world around them. Inside the forest, it could have been the middle of the night for all they knew, the middle of winter, as the chill and darkness closed in around them. Harry’s breathing became faster, shallower. This forest reminded him another, walking here to find Rowle reminded him a different walk, a different purpose.

It’s over, he told himself. It’s all in the past. There are things to do, important things. Keep your eyes open. Keep your mind clear. Find him.

But there was nothing, nothing there, not at all. Not a sign. They could walk right next to Rowle, Harry knew, and never find him.

“Homenum Revelio,” he muttered. The wand span uselessly in his hand.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Ron whispered.

And then Harry froze, and signalled the rest to do the same. He had heard something. They immediately stopped, waiting for him, waiting to hear what he heard or see what he saw. Cho was scanning the forest around them, the habit of a Seeker. Neville was fretting in his place. Lavender froze, her wand stretched out. And Ron looked around, then at Harry, then looked around again.

“Did you hear something?” he whispered.

“I think so.... there?” Harry muttered, and pointed left. Ron took a couple of steps.

The forest was silent.

And then curses started raining on them. “Avada Kedavra!” Harry heard a shout and jumped at the last second. Lavender returned a green jet of fire in the same direction. Cho followed suit, while Neville’s wand shot a sparkling red steam. Harry looked for a second at the onslaught - something red was coming at their direction, red and then green, purple and yellow.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop! It’s us! Stop!” The four people behind him ducked, but stopped casting their spells at the unknown enemy. After a second or two, the curses stopped coming in their direction - and Dean showed up, his face white.

“Are you alright?” he demanded. “Harry?! Are you alright?!”

Harry looked for a second at the people behind him. They were all breathing heavily - but they were all breathing. “Yeah, yeah, we’re fine. You guys?”

“I think Seamus got Disarmed,” he said, “but other than that we’re fine.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. And then anger engulfed Harry.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You could have killed us! What were you using the Killing Curse for?”

Dean looked down. “You were so quiet. We were sure it was Rowle... I think Seamus panicked.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again,” Harry said, and Dean nodded. The rest of the group had come out of behind their trees.

“What shall we do?” Dean whispered to Harry. “Should we split up again or join in with your group?”

“Maybe we should stay with you guys,” Seamus said doubtfully. “I still feel like you’re the only one who knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, Harry, you’re definitely the one with the most experience. I think it’d be better if we stick together.”

Harry looked at them, torn between the safety in bigger numbers - and people who aren’t trying to attack him out of fear - and the need to cover more ground. “Okay,” he nodded in the end. “Let’s stick together.”

The other six smiled in relief, and then - the curses came out of nowhere. One killing curse after the other, no warning, no sign of where they were coming from.

“Get down!” Harry shouted, and they all looked for cover behind trees.

“Expelliarmus,” he shouted and pointed his wand somewhere behind him, behind the trees, where the curses were coming from. It didn’t stop the spells.

“Avada - “ someone started shouting, but Harry immediately shouted “No!” and whoever it was stopped. “It might be one of ours! Be careful with the spells!” he shouted at the others.

“Stupify!” Ron shouted next to him, aiming his wand with the same inefficient way as Harry did just seconds before.

“This isn’t going to work,” Harry breathed.

“I think this is Rowle, Harry,” Ron whispered next to him. “He’s not stopping and he’s not identifying himself. He’s had plenty of time to hear us shouting here. If he was one of the Aurors, he would have stopped.”

Harry nodded - he had just reached the same conclusion himself.

“We need to locate him,” he said and got out of the tree’s defence for a second. A jet of green light crashed into the tree next to him.

“We need to distract him,” Ron said wisely, “then we can talk about locating him.”

Harry thought for a moment. “You think you can start casting spells at all directions?” he asked.

“Sure - hold on, Neville should be able to hear me. Oi! Neville!”

Slowly, they arranged their distraction with the rest of the group. When Harry shouted his signal, ten Disarming spells hit the forest in all directions, again and again and again. And from out of his tree, Harry started crawling, looking around.

A green jet - there! He located the source, and started crawling in its direction. Come on, come on, come on, he thought. Someone hit him. Someone get him. He couldn’t cast a spell himself - it would only alert Rowle to the fact he was getting closer to him. He had to wait. But the green jets were getting closer. Somebody hit him! He though desperately, unsure how much further he’d be able to get.

And then - the green jets stopped. Harry froze for a moment, cautious of a trap. Maybe Rowle had realised he was getting closer - or maybe he had been Disarmed. Harry waited several seconds more and then, encouraged, started crawling again towards the last direction of the green jets. Just a bit more, just a bit - and he was there.

Rowle was sprawled on his back, his eyes open. At first, Harry thought someone must have hit him with a body-bind curse, but as he got closer, he realised his mistake. Rowle was not Disarmed. He was not Stunned. He was dead. “Stop!” Harry shouted back, and the onslaught of spells had ceased.

And from in front of him, Gawain Robards emerged, wand in hand, smile on his face. “You provided quite the distraction, guys,” he said, proud. “He would have realised I was getting closer if it weren’t for all he noise you were making. Well done!”

Harry got up on his feet, looking at Robards, stunned. “He didn’t realise you were coming,” he said flatly.

“That’s the best way to get them,” Robards chuckled. “Minimum risk. Of course, I realise this was not minimum risk, not for you guys. That’s why I had to take him out as soon as possible.”

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Harry said.

“Safer that way,” Robards shrugged. “Good job everyone!” he called out loud. “Search over.”

And then he was gone, and Harry was left there, staring with his mouth half-open, trying to understand.

“It’s just like last time.” he muttered when Ron showed up next to him, beaming.

“What is?”

“This - all of this. Just like when Sirius got sent to Azkaban without a trial.”

“Sirius - what are you on about?!”

“Robards!” Harry almost shouted, then lowered his voice at the curious glances from the others. “He killed Rowle when he was busy with our spells.”

“Good,” Ron said.

“What?!”

“Rowle was trying to kill us, Harry, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I noticed,” Harry said darkly.

“So? What’s the problem? He tried to kill us, but Robards got there first. Serves him right.”

“He could have Stunned him.”

“Yeah, but why risk another fight when he recovers? And what in Merlin’s name does that have to do with Sirius?”

“They did the same thing last time after Voldemort disappeared. Killing people when they could have arrested them. Sending people to Azkaban without a trial.”

“Yeah, well, call me when they start doing that,” Ron said, unsympathetic. “So far, we’ve had a severe lack in actually _catching_ Death Eaters, dead or alive. So forgive me if I’m not going to mourn him.”

“I didn’t ask you to mourn him,” Harry was now getting annoyed at Ron, as well as Robards.

“Well it sounds like it!” Ron blurted out. “Maybe you want to listen to Neville some more. That’s exactly what he was trying to tell you last night. They’re Death Eaters. As long as they’re alive, they’re trouble. And as long as they fight and try to kill us, I don’t care what happens to them. Or by who.”

Harry didn’t continue the argument. He didn’t want to have it, not with Ron. But it stayed with him, all through the morning, as they got back to the training facility, and later on when Ron and Cho showed up with a Quaffle and suggested a game of Quidditch.

Harry leaped on the suggestion. Despite the training, despite the morning, he had a lot of energy to burn - or rather, a lot of things he didn’t want to think about. The argument with Ron had lasted long after they returned, and even though it all cooled up now, and Ron had suggested the Quidditch game in the most natural way, he seized the opportunity to do something that wasn’t arguing. Ron himself didn’t seem to care anymore about the argument, and perhaps it was all in Harry’s head - but a game of Quidditch wouldn’t hurt. And besides, he hadn’t played Quidditch for ages. By now, they probably were already training at full force at Hogwarts, and above all, he missed the game.

It was a lucky streak that Anthony wasn’t up for the game - “I’m rubbish,” he said, “absolutely rubbish. And I’ll be completely honest, I never liked it!” - and so they could split into two equal groups of five, with two chasers and one beater for each team, in addition to the keeper and seeker positions.

Harry and Cho played seekers, a decision that made Cho unable to hold her smile. “Looks like we’d be competing again, Harry,” she smiled, and he smiled back. Ron raised an eyebrow, but Harry shrugged - Cho wasn’t flirting with him. He knew Cho well enough to know when she was flirting with him, and this wasn’t it. Just for a moment, she had the same image in her head as he did, going head-to-head in his third year, her fourth, playing the game when life was still easy.

And if he was calling his third year of Hogwarts easy now, with Sirius and Dementors and Wormtail, it had long been time for a friendly game of Quidditch.

The rest of the team worked out nicely. He had Ron as keeper for his team, who was much more calm about the whole prospect these days - and, Harry suspected, when not playing in front of the entire school. Lavender was playing chaser, which could be a problem, as Harry had no idea whether she could even play. But on the other hand, their other chaser was Katie, and as a beater, they had a very enthusiastic Seamus.

Lavender turned out to be not bad at all; Seamus a disaster. He had managed to send the single Bludger they were playing with three times in Harry’s direction. And on the other team, Neville turned out to be a decent keeper and Padma and Dean more than decent chasers, but Lee was just as bad with the beater bat as Seamus.

They called it quits the third time Neville was knocked off his broom. After being saved the first time by Padma, and the second by Harry - a feat which earned him an irritated “Whose team are you on?!” from Ron - no one saw Neville go down the third time and he hit the ground with a bang.

“Neville!” They all shouted and landed their brooms, checking if he was alright.

“I’m fine - really - I’m alright, I’m - “ Neville tried to get on his feet, and fell. Holding hard to Seamus - after twice of horrible misaiming by Dean, it was Seamus’s badly-directed Bludger that got Neville - he got to his feet again, this time succeeding.

“Did you break anything?!”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he said and limped to the grass, to sit next to Anthony, who said he preferred to just watch the game - but ended up reading the _Prophet_. He was reading the paper with such concentration, that he didn’t realise the game was prematurely over until the rest of the group joined him and Neville on the grass.

“What’s up, guys?” he asked, surprised.

“Oh, you know. Seamus can’t aim if his life depended on it,” Cho said jokingly. “I just hope your spell casting skills are better than that.”

Seamus said nothing, but just turned red, and tried to change the subject of the conversation.

“Anything interesting?” he asked Anthony, gesturing at the paper.

“Just our friend Will Jones. Man, he doesn’t give up any excuse to get his name in the papers.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s about Rowle - they already heard about it,” Anthony sneaked a glance at Harry, and when the outburst didn’t appear to come, he read out loud.

“Aurors have been given permission to use deadly force, Will Jones has confirmed today after the news of the killing of Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle by Ministry Aurors. ‘Our Aurors need to be able to defend themselves. And it is better that Death Eaters die than we allow them to get away with it.’ Mr Jones is referring, perhaps, to Walden Macnair, the Death Eater who had died of a heart-attack earlier this week, before the verdict in his sentence could be given. Macnair, who had been a Ministry employee for thirty-five years, has sparked a new controversy in his death,when it turned out that he is eligible for a Ministry-sponsered funeral and death benefits for his family, in accordance with the standard contract between employees and the Ministry.  
‘They tell us we have to pay for the man to get buried,’ Will Jones addressed the crowds yesterday at the courthouse. ‘They tell us we have to pay for his family. We need to compensate a Death Eater’s family! All because he died too soon! Well I say no! And I promise you, ladies and gentlemen, that the law will soon say no, too’.”

Anthony finished reading the piece, and everyone was silent - until Seamus spoke. “What, Macnair died?” he asked, surprise in his voice - and everyone started laughing.

They had been so busy that week that most of their breakfasts had been interrupted, and that was the time they usually read the _Prophet_ \- or at least, someone did, and read aloud the interesting bits for the others to hear. But this week, they were all busy and tired, and none of them thought to read the paper.

But still, they expected to hear about things such as dead Death Eaters, even if their death came by natural causes.

Now they sat there, and thought about what they had just heard.

“They’ll have to pay,” Ron said. “There was this case about five years ago, the same happened with old Calvin - d’you remember?”

“No,” said Harry and Anthony, at the same time as Cho and Neville said “Yes”.

“Well, Calvin, he was working for the Ministry for years before he retired. In the Department of Magical Transportation,” Ron explained. “Anyway, he was 120 and almost senile when Dad caught him bewitching his Muggle neighbours’ dogs. Well - everyone said he was senile, but Dad said he knew exactly what he was doing.”

“And then what happened?”

“They set a date for the trial, right, but then the old codger died on them. Dad was pissed off for days! And I remember him going on about exactly that, how the Ministry had to pay for the funeral and death benefits and all that, only because he died before they convicted him.”

“Yeah, but, Ron, this is a Death Eater,” Cho pointed out. “It’s not like someone who was just bewitching some Muggle artefacts - or animals,” she corrected herself. “He was one of the closest followers of Voldemort, wasn’t he, Harry?”

Harry nodded. His last encounter with Walden Macnair was at the Battle of Hogwarts. And at the graveyard, years before. Macnair had been with Voldemort since the very beginning.

“They can’t then,” she said with an assured voice.

But it turned out Cho was wrong. On Tuesday, after a weekend full of deliberations and discussion with everyone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Kingsley himself issued a statement, that since Macnair had not yet been convicted and therefore still defined as a suspect, and despite the weight of the testimonies against him, including Harry Potter’s own account of Voldemort’s actions, they could not deny his family the rights of a Ministry employee.

That day, a group of Muggle-born wizards had taken up signs and started picketing in front of the Visitors’ Entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Nothing anyone said, including Kingsley, could convince them to leave. Only when Will Jones came out, and promised again to change the laws and Ministry policy, did they agree to leave.

It turned out the changes in Ministry policies came earlier than they thought. On Wednesday morning, when they came down to class after breakfast, the Auror Greg Savage was the one who waited for them, where Dawlish always did.

“What’s up?” Asked Seamus. “Where’s Dawlish?”

“I’ll be your instructor for today,” Savage said shortly, and assigned them the hardest Concealment and Disguise exercise yet, and nothing they did ever seemed enough for Savage. By lunchtime, Ron’s nose grew to three times its normal size, Seamus’s eyes seemed to be permanently stuck on purple, and Padma started wondering whether she should keep her hair green.

“I hope Dawlish gets back soon,” Cho said over her pumpkin juice.

“Yeah, I never thought I’d miss Dawlish of all people,” Anthony mused.

“Do you think Savage knows most of us didn’t take our N.E.W.T.s?” Ron wondered loudly, hoping the query would get to Savage’s ears.

“I don’t think he cares, Ron,” Dean answered, and earned groans of agreement from all around the table.

It wasn’t until lunch was over that news started trickling to the trainees. Dawlish wasn’t going to return - he had been fired by the Ministry.

“For staying in the Ministry after the Death Eaters took over,” Neville finished telling the gossip he had heard from the cook. “They’re firing everyone - with warnings.”

“Warnings? What warnings?”

“That they might start investigations. You know, to see whether they should be put on trial.”

“I thought there was already a committee that did all that,” Padma said.

“Yeah, well, they’ve now started questioning the committee, saying that they should make sure everyone who cooperated, to whatever extent, should pay for it. They said the committee was thinking more about taking care of Ministry employees and keeping any embarrassing details quiet than justice.”

“That’s mad! What, they’re going to fire everyone who stayed at their job now?”

“They already have.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone!”

Harry and Ron looked at each other, thinking the same thing - they can’t have...

“Do you know,” Harry started cautiously, realising Ron didn’t really want to ask the question, “what they’re doing with Ministry employees who were also members of the Order of the Phoenix?”

“How many of those were they?” Padma snorted, to which Ron burst angrily.

“My family!” he said.

“What, they kept on working with the Ministry?”

“Until Easter. Until the Ministry had proof I was with Harry, then they had to go underground.”

“I’m sure they’re not going to fire your family, Ron, come on. They know they were working on our side!” Dean tried to calm him down. “That would be ridiculous.”

Ron was in a foul mood for the rest of the day, until he got an owl from his parents confirming that Arthur did not lose his job. He did get a dismissal letter at first, but after taking the matter to Kingsley, his dismissal was revoked.

“See? Told you everything would be alright,” Harry said that evening.

But Ron was still unhappy. The very existence of the letter, even by mistaken, had upset him. And their training under Savage wasn’t doing anything to lift his mood.

After the initial disastrous Concealment and Disguise class, they had an equally disastrous class in Stealth and Tracking, when they got themselves lost in Manchester for hours, looking for an object that had been concealed somewhere inside the city. Harry’s patience finally ran out around 8, and he started asking Muggle passerbys for help. They had found the object - a wizard portrait - but Savage, displeased, told them they would have to repeat their exercise the next day. Without contacting Muggles, he stressed that last point, and looked at Harry in annoyance.

“Hey,” Dean objected. “When we’re Aurors, we can ask help from Muggles too, as long as we don’t tell them anything about who we are!”

“You will not always have Muggles around,” answered Savage, even more displeased at the unexpected opposition.

“Well, then, maybe we shouldn’t be training inside a city,” Ron muttered, but Savage ignored him. The next day, they repeated the exercise all through the morning and until lunch, abusing Savage all the while.

But instead of the transfiguration class they had scheduled for later, Savage showed up with a Portkey to class. Gawain Robards and the other Aurors had reason to believe they had finally found the hiding place of Amycus and Alecto Carrow, and wanted every possible person as back-up.

This time, they found themselves in the middle of London. It was immediately obvious why the Ministry wanted as many people as possible - they were at the centre of the city. Large buildings towered above them, full of offices, full of people coming and going, unaware of the wizards around them. On the other side - rows and rows of houses. It was the worst possible place for Aurors to act, in the midst of the Muggles.

The trainees immediately spread, as to not to arouse suspicion with the Muggles. Savage explained their role - like they had done with the Smith family, no one was expecting them to fight, not yet. They were just there to block any possible escape by the Carrows, to stop them from taking hostages or hurting Muggles.

“This will not be the first time a cornered Death Eater chooses to kill Muggles, just because they can,” Savage spat, and Harry thought of Peter Pettigrew.

“They won’t get the chance,” he promised Savage, and the rest nodded. As with the forest, they didn’t look to Savage for guidance - but to Harry. Harry quickly muttered a short plan, the places for the trainees to wait, how to spread, where to look - and what to do if the Carrows came running. They shouldn’t be too afraid of using magic, he noted - there were Ministry wizards already at the scene, preparing their memory-modifying charms to use on any Muggle who saw anything. “But I guess it would be best to keep that stuff for minimum,” he said, and the rest nodded.

And then, they waited.

The Aurors were taking their time. Perhaps as a result of the mess with the Smith family, perhaps trying to figure out a strategy, perhaps because there were now less of them and an unknown number of Death Eaters to face - but this time, they didn’t storm into the building. They waited, argued, and planned, until they reached an agreement. Then, with a nod at Harry’s group, the Aurors started walking in.

And as they walked in, Harry started scanning the building, until -

Here he was. Outside of the building, climbing out of the fire escape. Amycus Carrow.

Ron spotted him almost at the same time as Harry.

“Did you - “

“Yeah,” Harry nodded.

“You think we should - “

“At this distance?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “We’d hit any Muggle between us. And we’d only alert him that we’re here.”

“So, what do we do?”

Harry thought for a moment. “I got my invisibility cloak,” he said.

“Brilliant.”

Harry nodded, then covered himself with the cloak, and started walking towards the building. Amycus, in the meantime, kept on climbing down. Harry assumed that, once again, the wizards had put an anti-Apparition spell on the area, but he had no way of knowing how large an area they had covered. It might be the building, it might be the entire neighbourhood. Better not find out.

He wouldn’t need to, he realised. He got to the bottom of the building long before Amycus had finished climbing down the fire escape. And any minute now, he’d be off the building, and...

‘Stupify!” Harry said quietly, and Amycus fell, a surprised look on his face. Ron rushed towards him, as did the other trainees - and half a dozen Ministry employees.

“Nice job, Potter,” said one of them - and it was a nice job, Harry had to admit. He had cast the spell so softly, that none of the Muggles even realised. And now, the whole thing looked to them like a bunch of people rushing to help a man who had fallen from the fire escape, completely innocent.

“It’s okay,” Ron was already calming down the people around. “We’ll be taking him to the hospital. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Completely innocent - until the explosion rocked the seventh floor of the building. Everyone jumped. Sirens started working - the building’s fire alarm had gone off, a moment too late.

“Stay here!” Harry shouted, and rushed inside. He started climbing the stairs, as fast as he could, coughing from the green smoke that had spread all the way from above. Around him, panicked Muggles rushed outside, climbing down as fast as possible.

“What are you doing?!” shouted one of them at him. Harry ignored him, and kept on climbing up, to the top of the building, to the seventh floor.

Through the door, into the corridor - he could see the office where the Death Eaters were hiding, the place they had converted into their hide-out flat. The wooden door was completely shattered, fires burning in purple and green all around.

Someone staggered out, coughing - Savage.

“Is there anyone inside?” Harry shouted at him. Savage didn’t seem to even register him. “Is there anyone still there? Did anyone survive the explosion?!” he asked, but Savage was still confused. Harry rushed inside, casting a few well-chosen spells, and the fires subsided.

There was at least one burnt body in front of him. Harry rushed inside, trying to see who it was, but didn’t recognise the face. Then he continued - and ran into Gawain Robards himself, who was trapped in another fire. Harry quenched that fire too, and helped Robards on his feet. Robards clutched his shoulders, coughing.

“Is there anyone still inside?” Harry asked again, hoping to get a better answer from Robards than he got from Savage. Robards tried to say something - then started coughing again, and resorted to shaking his head. Only the three of them, then - Robards, Savage, and the unknown dead Auror.

“Come on, then,” Harry said, and helped Robards out of the room. In the corridor, they saw Savage, fighting another fire. “Come on!” Harry shouted at him, and as Savage killed the last of the flames, the three of them climbed down the stairs, and into the fresh air.

The Ministry wizards were already hard at work. They couldn’t make the Muggles forget about the explosion - but at least, they figured, they could make them forget about it burning in purple and green. The other Aurors, those who remained outside, were already covering Amycus, restraining him with magical ropes. Some rushed to Harry’s help, calling a medi-wizard to check Savage and Robards.

And around him, the trainees looked at Harry with a mixture of admiration and exasperation.

“You could have been killed!” Ron was the first to say.

“I - “ Harry coughed a bit, not realising until then how much smoke he inhaled. His cough caught the attention of a medi-wizard, who ordered Ron and the rest out of the way, and started checking Harry over.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, really,” Harry tried to say, but all that came out were coughs.

“Another one for St Mungo’s,” the medi-wizard called over his shoulder.

“No, really,” Harry insisted. “I’m okay, I wasn’t hurt.”

The medi-wizard didn’t look impressed. “We’ll be the judge of that, Mr Potter. Come on, to the hospital!”

St Mungo’s were quick to release him, as they were with Savage and Robards. Smoke inhalation - even magical smoke - was not a dangerous thing in the magical world. All three were soon dismissed - and were met with Kingsley at the hospital’s reception.

“Barkley is dead,” he announced gravely the fate of the third Auror, and they nodded. They already knew. “And... I need your help. Harry, we’re going to need you too.”

Amycus Carrow was alone in the flat when he had set the explosion, but it was the base of more than one Death Eater, the headquarters for the various Death Eater attacks of the last weeks as well as a place to hide. At least his sister, Alecto, was known to have been there as well, and there were signs of at least two more Death Eaters. As a safe place, their disappearance could only be explained in one way.

“They must have planned something,” Kingsley said, and the rest agreed. They had got there too late - the Death Eaters were already on their way to cause more death, destruction and havoc in the magical world.

But Amycus Carrow refused to say anything. In a small, dark room, where the oxygen felt stale and used, he was sat on a chair and chained, deep inside the Department of Mysteries, and all that time he had been looking at Kingsley and laughing. “You’ll never catch them,” he taunted the Aurors who had tried - and failed - to perform Legilimency on him.

Gawain Robards was the best Legilimens the ministry had. They arrived at the Ministry within seconds, and immediately Robards set on the task. Harry, Kingsley and Savage stood and watched anxiously as the war continued within the minds of Robards and Carrow. But after gruelling five minutes, Robards broke eye contact in resignation.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not when he’s like that. He’s too much in control.”

Harry looked from Robards to Kingsley. Kingsley looked tired, more tired than ever Harry remembered him.

He then advanced towards Carrow. “You have one last chance,” Kingsley said in that deep voice of his, but Amycus Carrow laughed. “Yeah? Or what?”

In response, Kingsley looked at Robards, and nodded.

“Crucio!” Robards aimed his wand at Amycus, who started screaming. “Someone hold his eyes open!” he called towards the three of them.

Savage obliged, he rushed towards Amycus, who was still screaming, and now started shaking all over. “I can’t - would you - hold on!” Savage called, unable to hold the big Death Eater.

Kingsley averted his eyes in disgust from the sight, but said nothing. Harry kept on watching. He wanted to shout at them to stop, that this was wrong, but the sight of the shaking Death Eater, the way the Aurors tried to restrain him, mesmerised him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he kept on staring stupidly from Kingsley to Savage, from Amycus Carrow to Gawain Robards.

Finally, Robards had lifted the curse - not because of Carrow’s shouts, but because Savage had shouted at him to. He could not get a hold at the Death Eater as long as he was shaking.

Carrow was now shivering in his chair, no longer laughing - no longer looking at Robards at all. Just shaking slightly, not struggling, not trying to move. Using the temporary calm, Savage caught his head, and forced his eyes open.

“Now!” he shouted, and Robards cast the curse again. Carrow started screaming again, shaking his chair violently. His shoulder started bleeding - he had hit it hard against the chair, his already limited movement made even more limited by Savage’s grip. Blood started dripping from his lip - he had bitten himself, unable to move his head, unable to move his body, unable to shut his eyes, unable to get away from the curse.

Robards was smiling now. “Gotcha,” he muttered, his words swallowed in Carrow’s screams. But he didn’t stop the curse. Carrow screamed and screamed, and Harry watched and watched, and next to him Kingsley watched, and finally he said ‘enough’, but his voice could not be heard above Carrow’s screams, and still he screamed until Kingsley shouted “Enough!” and Robards looked at him in surprise.

Robards lifted the curse. The screaming stopped. Savage let go of Carrow’s head, and the eyes that until then had been forced open rolled into the back of his skull, his head falling on his chest. He was breathing heavily - and Harry realised that so was he.

“They’re trying to blow up The Three Broomsticks at Hogsmeade,” Robards said, victorious. “We’ve got a couple more hours, they’re getting ready in the woods nearby. We should be able to catch them if we go out now. It’s Alecto and a couple of others, Mateland and Shepherd.”

Kingsley nodded. “Go,” he said shortly. “Take Brown with you.”

Robards nodded, and he and Savage left the room.

Harry kept on staring at Amycus Carrow.

“I’m sorry you had to watch this, Harry,” Kingsley said quietly. “This isn’t how we do things here, not usually. We had no choice.”

By the time Harry raised his eyes from Carrow to where Kingsley had been, the Minister of Magic was gone.

Harry left the room, wandering the corridors, not certain where to go, not certain what to do. Not certain how to feel, not certain how he was feeling. He felt numb, as if someone else had witnessed the interrogation, if that was the right word, somewhere else was now walking through the familiar corridors - too familiar. Without realising it, he found his way to the lift, to the Atrium.

“Mr Potter!” Will Jones showed up out of nowhere, rushing to shake Harry’s hand. “I heard your contribution to today’s events. Well done, Mr Potter! Well done! You are, indeed, a fine addition to the Ministry’s Auror office - not that anyone ever thought differently, of course.”

Harry stared at him, and opened his mouth to speak - but no words came out. He pulled his hand back, and continued walking. He had no idea where he was going. Only that he wanted to get as far away from the Ministry as possible.

“Harry!” he heard another voice calling his name. Kingsley. He didn’t stop.

“Harry!” Kingsley called again.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. Getting away from the stranger’s grip, he raised his eyes and saw Greg Savage. The Auror. His instructor. A trusted employee of the Ministry of Magic. Bile rose in his throat.

“The Minister called you,” Savage said lightly. As if nothing had happened.

“Harry,” Kingsley had caught up with them by now, his voice turned back to its normal tones. “Just wanted you to know. They stopped them.”

“And quite a fight it was,” Savage sighed. “We never get any breaks.”

“They’re dead,” Harry stated, finding his voice again for the first time since it disappeared at the sight of the Cruciatus Curse.

“Yeah, well, you should have been there,” Savage said. “Should have seen it! The bastards started throwing curses at us as soon as we Apparated - it was like they waited for us! But we got them,” he smiled.

“Good job,” Kingsley congratulated Savage.

“Come on, Harry, we need to go back,” Savage put his hand again on Harry’s shoulder. Harry moved from under his touch.

“Are you okay?” Savage asked Harry in a concerned voice. “Isn’t he a bit pale?” he asked Kingsley.

“He’ll be fine,” Kingsley said shortly, not looking at Harry.

“Come on, then! Still got a class or two today,” Savage laughed at his own joke. They left the Ministry together. Savage was in a good mood. It was the first time Harry had seen him laughing and joking since he became their instructor. Harry said nothing as they left the Ministry, into the street, and turned on the spot, appearing in the Manchester training facility.

“Well, you better go to the others, give them the good news,” Savage said brightly, and left for his own quarters.

Harry walked towards the room, unaware of the corridors around him, unaware of the people, bile still in his throat, his hands shivering, the sound of Amycus Carrow’s screams in his ears. His friends jumped when he entered the room, demanding answers, wanting to know where he had been, what he had been doing.

It took Ron one look at his face to tell everyone to shut up. “Later, guys, alright? I don’t think he wants to talk now.”

Harry had never felt so grateful towards Ron in his life.

He climbed up to his bunk, watching the room. The other ten trainees had resumed their chatter and their game of Exploding Snap. In the background, the latest Death Eater Watch radio programme was playing.

‘...And these are the names of known Death Eaters whose whereabouts are still unknown. Antonin Dolohov, previously sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, wanted for the murder of war hero Remus Lupin; Lawrence Nott, previously sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban; James Selwyn, wanted for the murder of Anna Jones and the imprisonment of Xenophilius Lovegood; Augustus Rookwood, previously sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, wanted for the murder of war hero Fred Weasley; Matilda Brixton, wanted for the murder of war hero Colin Creevey; Roy Harper, wanted for the torture and false imprisonment of many Muggle-borns; Bridget Jackson, wanted for the torture and false imprisonment of many Muggle-borns; David Burke, wanted for the torture and false imprisonment of many Muggle-borns. You have been listening to Death Eater Watch, and we will continue to broadcast until all Death Eaters are caught and brought to justice. Be careful, and goodnight.”


	9. Friendship

These are the things Ron Weasley doesn’t ask Harry Potter:

He doesn’t ask what Harry saw in Snape’s memories, even though he knows that whatever it was, it made Harry turn himself over to Voldemort;

He doesn’t ask how Harry survived when Voldemort used the Killing Curse on him again, and Harry himself offered no resistance;

He doesn’t ask how it felt to Harry: to go to his death, to go there willingly, to go there alone;

He doesn’t ask how afraid Harry was, knowing the most dangerous wizard in history was after him, personally;

He doesn’t ask Harry what he had seen in the Ministry of Magic, after Rowle was captured.

He knows he would be the first Harry told, not Ginny, not Hermione, him. He knows Harry would have already answered these questions, if he was ready. He knows that, despite the fact he would have liked to know the answer.

And that Harry knows he would like to know the answer, too.

**-X-**

The fragile peace they had from Harry, mainly for the sake of the rest of the trainees, had been irrevocably broken after Harry came back from the Ministry. Harry no longer seemed to care whether his disagreements with the Ministry - or with their instructor - were destroying whole classes and training exercises.

The first time this happened was their first class that very next morning. Savage had only started to talk about the best ways to repel Unforgivable Curses, when Harry looked directly at him and didn’t even wait for him to finish the sentence.

“Funny you should call them Unforgivable Curses,” he said suddenly.

Savage stopped and looked at Harry in confusion. “That’s their name,” he said, half stating, half asking.

“I’m just saying, weird name.”

“But - I thought you guys covered this in Hogwarts?” he looked in confusion at the classroom. “They’re called Unforgivable Curses because the use of any one of them gets you thrown into Azkaban.”

“Well, except if you’re one of the people who get forgiven for using them,” Harry said shortly.

Savage froze. “I don’t think this is the best time to have this conversation, Harry,” he said.

“Why?”

By now, everyone was staring at Harry, their mouths open, wondering what the hell was going through his head. Those of them who had been with Harry in classes where he had taken issues with their teacher’s attitudes - particularly with Dolores Umbridge - could already sense where this was going.

“What’s he doing?” Seamus whispered to Ron, but Ron shook his head. He had no idea, either.

“This just isn’t the - “

“This just isn’t the place to point out that we’re doing exactly what the Death Eaters were doing, only we’re the good guys, so it’s okay when we’re doing it?”

“I don’t think - “

“Yeah, you don’t think.” Lavender and Padma gasped.

“Harry, I - “

“Why shouldn’t we discuss how it’s completely acceptable today for the Ministry to torture people for information? Or kill Death Eaters when you can just capture them?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Savage said, and turned his back to Harry.

“So that’s not what happened?” Harry found himself on his feet. He wasn’t quite sure when he got up, but he must have.

Savage turned back to him. “Stop being so childish, Potter,” he said in a final tone. “And sit down.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Harry said savagely and walked out, seething.

It took him a moment out of class to realise there was someone else he wanted to talk to. Exiting the premises proved no problem, as did Apparating to the entrance of the Ministry of Magic. And once there, he was Harry Potter.

If Harry Potter wanted to visit Kingsley Shacklebolt, who’d tell him no?

And so it was only five minutes - and while his anger was still true - that he entered Kingsley’s office. His anger only rose when he saw Cornelius Fudge there, but before he had the chance to say a few choice words, Kingsley seized the opportunity to start speaking.

“I wondered if I’d see you here,” Kingsley said without raising his head. “Even though, to the best of my knowledge, you still have classes right about now.” There was amusement in his voice. Harry couldn’t quite see what there was to be so amused about, so he remained silent.

“Cornelius, if you could?”

“Of course, Minister. Harry,” he greeted Harry - as if there was no bad blood within them, as if Cornelius Fudge didn’t share the blame for what had happened the year before. Harry just nodded curtly, not trusting himself to say anything to the man.

Kingsley only raised his head from the paperwork once Fudge had left. “I assume, Harry, this has something to do with yesterday.”

Harry nodded again. He still didn’t trust himself to speak, not even to Kingsley.

“I’m not proud of that,” Kingsley said quietly. “But we really couldn’t afford any attacks right now, no matter how small - and it turned out the attack we stopped was quite big. I’m not going to apologise for it, either.”

“ _You_ couldn’t afford any attacks now?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his voice cold as ice.

“I’m not a politician, Harry,” Kingsley sighed. “Do you know why I have this job?”

“Because you were in the Order, because - “

“Because I was the highest ranking Ministry employee who was also in the Order of the Phoenix and survived the war.”

“Well, those are good enough credentials to me,” harry said. His impatience was growing again - what did this have to do with anything?

“Yes, and as it is, to most people. But this is a politician’s job, Harry, and I know nothing about politics.”

“Is this why you keep Fudge around?”

If Kingsley was upset with Harry’s bluntness, he said nothing, but just smiled. “Yes, and for other reasons.”

“Fudge - “

“ - Has done a lot of stupid things,” Kingsley completed the sentence, “and is not the brightest of people. He still puts too much stock in too many old values.”

“Like blood purity,” Harry said angrily.

“Yes, indeed. Here’s a funny story, as long as we’re talking about politicians, Harry. With Will Jones’s talent and skills, he should have become head of his office five years ago, when the position first opened up. Instead, a pure-blood got the job, and only now, when he was reinstated, did we give him the office.”

“And now he’s spreading paranoia around.”

“You were the one who kept on insisting the Minister for Magic has too much authority, that more power should be given to the heads of office. Will Jones is one of my best heads of office, he’s an experienced politician, and - as we’ve already discussed - he has every reason to be paranoid. So what would you have me do? Revert back to the old system? Fire Will Jones because I disagree with him?” Kingsley raised an eyebrow, and Harry remained silent.

“I’m not asking this lightly, Harry. I ask myself these questions, too. All the time. I don’t like where the Ministry is going at the moment, either.”

“Then do something about it!”

“I am. The best I can. But on some issues, that’s not enough. I’m fighting for every decision, every policy. They’re playing here games I can’t even begin to understand. People like Fudge at least tell me when other people are hiding things for me. When they have a different agenda. I don’t even always recognise that, you know? So yeah - sometimes, I have to give up. There’s just no way around it. Sometimes, I have to authorise orders I really, really don’t like.”

“Like firing everyone - “

“Yes. I need Savage here, not stuck on an instruction job which, as important as it is, is hampering our ability to catch Death Eaters.”

“So you resort to torture.”

“We resort to whatever means we have to stop this. The sooner all Death Eaters have been rounded up, Harry, the sooner the Ministry can go back to normal and the sooner we can stop acting in a... distasteful manner.”

Harry thought to himself that he’s not sure whether the Ministry was ever normal to begin with, but said nothing. He left Kingsley’s office still angry, but also confused.

He didn’t even notice the commotion in the Atrium when he tried to leave - not until someone grabbed his arm. Lifting his gaze, he was surprised to see Will Jones - and Rita Skeeter.

He had walked straight into a press conference. Great.

“Harry!” Jones said happily, and Harry noted to himself that apparently now - or in front of Rita Skeeter, at any rate - he wasn’t Mr Potter anymore.

“Mr Jones,” he said as politely as he could, hoping to get away. “Rita.”

“Mr Potter! Always a pleasure,” she flashed her best smile. He considered screaming at her, but gave up the notion to mutter something non-committal that might have been “Yeah, right.”

“I was just telling Rita here the role you had in capturing the Death Eaters! This young man - “ he presented him to the rest of the reporters, “climbed to a burning building, saved three Aurors, and then joined them in interrogating a Death Eater to secure the location of his fellow criminals. I want to put it on records, because while no one needs any more indication that Harry Potter is a true hero, he never fails to give them.”

“It wasn’t interrogation, Mr Jones,” he said, his voice much louder than he meant.

“I beg your pardon?”

Rita Skeeter started scribbling frantically. Harry was surprised to realise that he didn’t care.

“As long as we’re putting things _on record_ , Will, let’s get some things straight, shall we? The building wasn’t burning, there was two Aurors alive there as the third was already dead, and it wasn’t an interrogation. It was an illegal torture of a prisoner to gain information.”

Will Jones’s face turned white. Rita Skeeter didn’t seem able to write fast enough. Cameras went off all around Harry.

And he didn’t care.

“Look, Harry, I’m not sure whether you are old enough to understand how our legal system works,” Will Jones started tentatively.

“Yes, I am. I’m old enough to have fought a war, and to defeat Voldemort, and I’m old enough to see that we’re becoming just like them.”

“We are using whatever methods necessary - “

“Death Eater methods.”

“No, not Death Eater methods,” Jones snapped. “We haven’t given up anyone to the Dementors, Mr Potter, who didn’t deserve it. We are fighting for our survival here, and we’re still maintaining our morals. The easy way would have been to get rid of all the Slytherins, wouldn’t it? But we’re giving them a chance. We are actually going only after those who waste their chance. It’s not our fault that most of them seem to be determined to waste it.”

“And pay them in the same coin as they did us.”

Jones stared directly at Harry, unfazed.

“We already won the war,” Harry pointed out, for what seemed like the umpteenth time in the past couple of months.

“Yes, you would say that. You’re half-blood, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t say anything to that, but did not avert his gaze from Jones. Jones, in his turn, stared at Harry for just a little bit longer, just as stubborn, but then turned to the cameras. “Don’t let this little misunderstanding give you the wrong idea, Rita,” he laughed, even if his laughter didn’t sound convincing to Harry’s ears. “The true beauty of the end of the war is that we can, in fact, disagree.” He grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it again. Harry mumbled an excuse and was soon gone.

In the end, his trip to the ministry didn’t sooth his anger, but rather kept it going all the way to the still empty dormitories. He was still angry when he stepped through the door, still angry when he climbed to his bunk. But then, doubt came over him.

He had used the Cruciatus curse himself, once.

But that was different, he argued with himself. His scar hurt and Voldemort was on his way and Amycus Carrow had just threatened the students of Hogwarts and spat in McGonagall’s face.

He had used the Cruciatus curse himself, once.

But that was different, he argued with himself. He only used it once, at the heat of the moment. The Aurors were now using it as a way of extracting information, and once that worked, who’s to tell they won’t do it again?

He used the Cruciatus curse himself, once.

But that was different, he argued with himself. Yes, he meant it then. He wanted to cause Amycus Carrow the worst pain possible. What he had done, what Harry had seen until then, what he was still facing... he was tired, he was scared, he was stressed. But he stopped.

For a moment he saw in his mind’s eye Savage’s face, the satisfaction in his expression as Amycus Carrow was screaming and screaming and screaming. And Kingsley had to shout at him to stop. That wasn’t Harry. Harry stopped on his own accord. Harry wanted Amycus to pay... but he didn’t enjoy it.

Not like that.

And still he felt sick, and covered himself in the blanket, trying to sleep. His dreams were haunted by people screaming, dead bodies all around, and Voldemort, always Voldemort, looking at him in his snake-like eyes and casting the Killing Curse. In his dreams, Harry died a thousand times.

The next morning, he got up and started throwing things into his bag.

“What’re you doing?” Ron mumbled, awakened by the noise Harry was making.

“Going to visit Ginny and Hermione.”

“Wha - “

“It’s Hallowe’en, remember? We said we’d go visit Hogwarts on Hallowe’en.”

“It’s Hallowe’en tomorrow,” Ron gave him a weird look. “It’s 7 a.m.. They have classes. _We_ have classes.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m going to Hogwarts,” he said simply.

Ron stood there and looked at him while Harry finished packing his bag and walked out of the door. He didn’t look back to see how long Ron kept on watching him afterwards.

The road to the school was chilly this time of the year. It was almost winter - not yet, not as cold as winter could get here in the mountains. But it was already cold, especially such a short time after sunrise. But walking on the road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts on this early Friday morning, he enjoyed freedom for the first time in a long time. He enjoyed the freedom of his cold breath, the freedom of walking this path, the freedom of not thinking about things he didn’t want to think about.

He didn’t go straight to the school. Ron was right, of course. It wasn’t yet Hallowe’en and everyone had classes. For a moment, he was sorry he didn’t ask Ron to come with him. They could go play Quidditch in the pitch, or go visit Hagrid, or go sit next to the lake. Or go find Peeves and annoy him, or talk to Nearly-Headless Nick, or do a thousand other small, unimportant things. Together. Now he was alone, and it wasn’t half as fun. He couldn’t go to see the girls now. Hermione would never agree to skive her classes, and if he came to ask Ginny and she was around, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Of course, there was a good chance Ron would tell her anyway, and then he still would never hear the end of it, but that possibility was in the future. Right now, he preferred to pretend it didn’t exist.

So he didn’t go to the castle, but instead found himself drawn to the Forbidden Forest. He wasn’t afraid of the forest anymore - or at least, not afraid of what the forest held. The dark creatures will have gone, gone with Voldemort, gone after the war. Unless, of course, Hagrid found a new... _thing_ to raise here, Harry settled on the word, and shrugged to himself. So what if he did? Good for him.

He walked purposelessly, letting his legs take him wherever they would. Without realising it, he had reached the clearance, the place that once housed the giant spiders, that once housed Voldemort. The same place he had buried Voldemort all those months ago.

It was still undisturbed.

There were the old signs of a fire, now covered with a small layer of frost. Old ropes were lying on the ground, covered with frost as well. Were these the ropes they had used to tie Hagrid? Harry mused, checking them closely, but seeing no indication either way. They could have been there long before, he had no way of knowing.

He was surprised to discover, though, that Voldemort’s makeshift grave was unidentifiable. He could not remember where exactly he had dug in the ground, where he left the body. And there was no sign around - the rain and the frost took care of that.

Better that way, Harry thought, and wandered away. If the noise of his footsteps on the leaves made him jump every once in a while, he ignored it. He was alone in the forest, that much he knew.

Several minutes later, and he was no longer in the forest: he was on the edge of the lake, and could see the great white tomb in front of him.

He hadn’t been there, not after the funeral, and not since he put back the Elder Wand with its former master. Now he looked curiously at the white marble. There was nothing in it to hint at the great man lying underneath it, nothing but a name and a date. They gave no hint of the personality of that great wizard, his quirkiness, or his talent.

They gave no hint as to how better the wizarding world would be right now, if he was still alive.

Harry stared at the tomb for a while longer in silence. Then, he started walking towards the castle. His legs carried him through the hall, up the familiar steps - and with Dumbledore’s tomb still in his mind, he found himself climbing through the highest stairs, up to the Astronomy tower. It was already well past nine - classes have already started. A group of young children, probably first or second years, were sitting in front of Professor Sinistra.

She didn’t realise he had entered the room at first. Standing with her back to the door, she continued lecturing her class about Jupiter. “As the largest planet in our solar system, Jupiter has already been recognised by the witches and wizards of ancient times. In fact, when you take your Divination classes, you will learn that it is treated as the ruler of the sky, over all other planets. Also, it’s really seen as the king of the skies with its responsibilities - it’s responsible for such matters as law, religion and freedom. And protection, too. Now, can any of you tell me how many moons does Jupiter have? Anyone?”

Finally, Professor Sinistra noticed none of her students was paying any attention to her. They were whispering between themselves, and some of the kids actually pointed directly at Harry. Professor Sinistra turned around, quite annoyed, but her expression changed when she spotted Harry.

“Mr Potter,” she smiled. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah... Sorry, Professor, I wasn’t thinking there’d be a class here...”

“Well, if you want to stay, perhaps show the kids some - “

“No, that’s alright, really,” he mumbled and went back down. The last thing he needed was to have a bunch of first years stare at him. And there would be other people too, he thought, and decided that a visit to say hello to Professor McGonagall should be safe.

He stopped short of knocking on the Headmistress’s door. Loud voices from inside the room told him something was wrong, so early in the morning. Loud voices which he recognised as Minerva McGonagall’s - and Kingsley Shacklebolt’s.

“The one time in recent history the Ministry has interfered with Hogwarts is not remembered fondly, Kingsley,” McGonagall said sharply.

“This is a part of a bigger change in Ministry policy, Minerva. This isn’t about Hogwarts.”

“You want to change a tradition older than a thousand years in this school, Kingsley, it is most definitely about Hogwarts.”

“This is about our society as a whole, Minerva. As you said, this tradition is a thousand years old - maybe it’s time to move forward.”

“But surely not like that? Abolishing one house out of the four will surely send the wrong kind of message?”

Harry had heard enough. He knocked on the door, and the voices from within the room stopped abruptly.

“Yes?” McGonagall said, and Harry opened the door.

McGonagall and Kingsley weren’t the only people in the room - on a soft chair, next to McGonagall’s desk, sat the former Minister for Magic and Kingsley’s current aide, Cornelius Fudge.

Above him, all the portraits were fast asleep - or at least, pretending to be.

“Potter,” McGonagall said in surprise.

“Professor,” he greeted her, “Minister... Fudge.” He emphasised the last word. There would be no respect in the way he addressed Cornelius Fudge.

Fudge started greeting him, then seemed to think better of it, and went back to his armchair. Kingsley, on the other hand, looked at him in a penetrating gaze.

“Looks like we keep on running into each other, Harry. I wondered if you’d end up here here,” he said.

“Why would you assume that?” Harry asked casually.

“Seeing as you left the training facility a bit early,” Kingsley said, just as casually. McGonagall looked from one to the other, confused and irritated.

“I must leave, Minerva,” Kingsley said, and Fudge got up. “Please, consider what I’ve asked you.”

McGonagall offered Harry her ginger newts, then followed Kingsley and Fudge, escorting them outside of the school. Harry sat in Fudge’s abandoned armchair, nibbling on ginger newts, and pointedly not looking at the portraits.

He expected the Dumbledore in the painting to say something, but when a voice was heard, it was Snape’s.

“So it has finally come to this,” the cold voice of his old Potions master stated. “Abolishing Slytherin house.”

Harry turned to looked at him. Snape was sitting in an armchair, looking greatly displeased - well, more displeased than usual. Harry couldn’t really remember ever seeing Snape _pleased_. But he couldn’t feel animosity towards Snape, not now.

“It shouldn’t be like this,” he said. “I’m sorry... Severus.”

Dumbledore beamed to him from his frame while the Snape in the portrait ignored him completely.

Harry waited a bit longer, thinking that perhaps the Dumbledore in the portrait might offer a word of advice, some of his wisdom, or at least a cryptic-as-hell saying that would at least _sound_ nice. But despite the momentary acknowledgement of Harry, the portrait of Albus Dumbledore had closed his eyes and returned to snooze on his very comfortable armchair. Harry went back to eating ginger newts, and that was how Professor McGonagall had found him, ten minutes later.

“Kingsley told me what had happened,” she said sternly. Harry looked at her and swallowed the newt. “I thought you wanted to be an Auror.”

“I thought so, too,” he offered as a response

She nodded. “It will take a while for things to get back to normal, Potter,” she said, not without kindness. “That’s how it was the last time.”

“The last time Sirius Black stayed in Azkaban without a trial for twelve years,” he reminded her, “and Dolores Umbridge sent Dementors after me to discredit me and Dumbledore.” His gaze travelled for a second to the back of his hand, but then his eyes returned firmly to McGonagall’s face. “I’m not sure we know what’s normal anymore, Professor.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” she said, perhaps in a slightly harsher manner than she meant, for immediately after her voice softened again. “There’s no reason to believe things will not calm down after all the Death Eaters have been caught.”

Harry didn’t look at her, but lifted his eyes to the portrait behind her. On his armchair, Albus Dumbledore was no longer pretending to be sleeping, but instead examining Harry from behind his half-moon glasses. There was no smile on his face.

“I hope you’re right, Professor,” he said quietly, without a lot of conviction.

 

**-X-**

 

It was Hallowe’en. It was morning. Harry woke up in the empty Gryffindor common room. The fire was burning merrily in the fireplace, lending homely and warm light to the entire room. For a moment, Harry wondered why he was sleeping on the sofa, as comfortable as it was, and not in his own bed in the dormitories. It took him a while to remember that he was not going to Hogwarts any longer, was no longer a student. They were just visiting. Hogwarts was no longer home.

And with that thought, he got up from the sofa with disappointment and looked at the room.

No one else was there - neither Ron nor Neville, Dean nor Seamus. They all came the day before, well into the evening, after their classes were finished, to join in with the Hallowe’en festivities. No one mentioned how he walked out of training, and even Hermione resisted the urge to tell him off, even though he could see her itching to do so. No, they just had a fun evening, and at the end of it, fell asleep right there in the common room. And now it was morning and the room was completely empty. He assumed it must be rather late, and that everyone was already down in the Great Hall for breakfast. It’d be better to join them, he thought, thinking of the wonderful breakfast prepared by the Hogwarts house-elves.

He wasn’t wrong - as soon as he entered the Great Hall he could spot Ron and Hermione, sitting next to Ginny and eating what looked like last night’s pumpkin pie. They weren’t alone - Neville and Seamus were busy telling a story to Dennis Creevey, with Dean nodding every once in a while, mainly reading the Prophet. For a second, he was surprised to spot Padma in the Gryffindor table - but then, she was sitting next to Lavender and Parvati. Seeing Parvati, Harry remembered that unlike her sister and her best friend, she had chosen to repeat her seventh year at Hogwarts.

Harry crossed the hall and sat down next to his friends, ignoring the way everyone in the Great Hall stopped eating and started staring at him as he passed by them. With slight annoyance, he noticed that some of the kids staring were in their sixth and seventh year, people he had known in his time at Hogwarts.

“Morning,” he said brightly, his cheerfulness perhaps slightly too forced, as he sat down next to Ron and picked up some toast.

“Morning,” Ron mumbled with his mouth full.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Ginny smiled, and Harry just looked at her for a couple of seconds longer than necessary before asking why they did not wake him up when they went down to breakfast.

“I figured you’d wake up eventually,” she shrugged.

“Not me. I suggested we pour some water over your head,” Ron contributed unhelpfully.

“Thanks, Ron.”

“You know I’m always there for you.”

Harry declined to reply to that, and just drank some pumpkin juice.

“This food is gorgeous!” Ron was already telling Hermione. “So much better than what the Ministry’s giving us. Kinda makes me wish I’d stayed at Hogwarts.”

“For the food?!”

“Yeah, why not? I mean, it’s not like I need the N.E.W.T.s or anything...”

“You know,” she said testily, “I think you two would have found Auror training much easier if you had completed your N.E.W.T.s.”

“Nah,” Ron was now talking with his mouth completely full again. “It would have been hard either way.”

“I can think of other reasons for you guys to have stayed here this year,” Ginny said softly, and Harry laughed.

“Oh, Harry, you’re here,” Dean suddenly raised his eyes from the paper.

“Took you a while to notice... What are you reading, anyway?”

“You’d love this. Rita Skeeter’s finally gone mad.”

“Why?” Harry asked suspiciously, “Is this about me?”

“Yeah, you’d love this, completely mental.”

“Go on, then,” Harry ignored the sense of foreboding that started forming at the bottom of his stomach and took instead another bite from his toast. “I could do with a laugh.”

“And what a laugh,” Dean said and started reading out loud.

‘THE BATTLE OF HOGWARTS series continues, as our correspondent Rita Skeeter tries to unveil the events of that fateful night. The last piece in the series: Harry Potter’s victory.

‘EVERYBODY in the magical world knows how the Battle of Hogwarts ended. Harry Potter had been given an ultimatum by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and had gone to meet him at the Forbidden Forest. Reported dead by the Man and the Monster himself, Harry Potter was brought as a body into Hogwarts, only to prove to be very much alive and triumph over the Dark Lord.

‘But not many know what had happened in those crucial minutes in the Forbidden Forest, and practically no one knows how Harry Potter managed to survive the Killing Curse a second time.

‘ _The Prophet_ can now exclusively reveal the details of that fateful night. Harry Potter, as opposed to popular belief, did not go out to the forest following You-Know-Who’s ultimatum. In fact, the information revealed here today suggests he would have gone out to meet the Dark Lord even in the unlikely event that the later would have given up and admitted defeat. Before Harry Potter had gone to meet his maker (and the Dark Lord), he had reportedly received a last message from none other than Albus Dumbledore, detailing his necessary course of action.

‘It has long been rumoured that during the past year, Harry Potter had been sent on a mission by Dumbledore to destroy dark artefacts created by You-Know-Who. As has been revealed in these pages only a few weeks ago, those dark artefacts were, in fact, pieces of You-Know-Who’s soul (despite the evidence suggesting no such thing has ever existed), also known as Horcruxes, and their destruction was essential to the destruction of the Dark Lord himself. The exclusive information that has been shared with _The Prophet_ suggest that there was one other such Horcrux - Harry Potter himself.

‘It was published long ago that Harry Potter had shared a connection with the Dark Lord, a mental connection that manifested in pains in his universally famous scar, and in such less known traits as Parseltongue, one of You-Know-Who’s trademark talents (after his penchant to murder innocent people). The evidence suggests all these unconnected traits were not unconnected at all, but were in fact the result of a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul that had survived within Harry Potter himself. Potter, then, had to go to the forest and allow himself to be killed, in order for the victory on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to be complete.’

Dean kept on reading, all the while with an amused voice. Harry had stopped following. He just sat there, staring into his pumpkin juice. She couldn’t know - how did she guess - who told her - who _knew_?!

“....I mean, how more ridiculous can she get? What’s next, maybe you’re Voldemort himself? Why stop at pieces of his soul, eh, Harry? ...Harry?” He jumped, hearing his name. Dean’s smile was half-frozen on his face, and he was looking at him in confusion and shock. Around them, all the people sitting at the Gryffindor table were staring at him.

Rita Skeeter’s reporting had sounded like fantastical nonsense to them, but Harry’s reaction confirmed its authenticity. He realised that as soon as he looked at Hermione, her eyes big and shocked, and at Ron, his mouth slightly open.

No one said a single word.

“Excuse me,” Harry muttered and got up, leaving the Great Hall behind him, wishing he had his invisibility cloak with him, so that he wouldn’t see all the faces, staring at him, all the kids, looking at him, then muttering something to their friends, then looking again.

He didn’t want to go back to the Gryffindor common room. It would soon be full of people, people who have all read the piece, people who have all heard how his reaction confirmed it all.

People who all knew he had a piece of Voldemort within him for 17 years.

He didn’t want to face them, their curiosity, their questions... and everything that would come after.

Once again, he found himself instead climbing, ending up at the same place - the Astronomy tower. Another place he didn’t really want to be - but one he couldn’t resist returning to. At least one where no one would think of looking for him, he hoped.

No one except Ron, apparently. It wasn’t ten minutes before he heard footsteps, and Ron’s voice behind him. “So there you are,” Ron said. Harry didn’t reply, didn’t turn around. He kept on sitting next to the school telescope, looking at the grounds, high above anyone else’s line of sight.

He was almost surprised to see Ron sitting down next to him. He didn’t think Ron would want to sit next to him. He wouldn’t have.

“I haven’t been back here since Dumbledore died,” Harry said quietly. He wasn’t sure why he was saying this - maybe it was another thing he had never shared with anyone, another secret whose time has come. Maybe he just wanted to talk about anything other than the article. Maybe he wanted Ron to know.

“We got back on brooms, see, and landed here,” he pointed at the spot he remembered so well. “And then Dumbledore’s spell froze me. And Malfoy came from here, and then Snape...” He was lost in memories for only a second - but still, long enough for Ron to speak.

“That’s what was in Snape’s memories?” Ron asked in a casual voice, unwilling to be deterred by Harry’s rambling.

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore told him. To tell me. After he knew he was dying.”

“And that’s why you went there?”

Harry nodded again, saying nothing.

“You must have been scared out of your mind.” It was a statement, a fact, not a question.

“There wasn’t a choice. It’s not just that he would have been after me for the rest of my life - he couldn’t be killed, not until I was dead, too.”

“Still doesn’t mean you weren’t scared,” Ron pointed out.

“No,” Harry agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“So that’s how you survived? He only killed himself?”

“It was...” Harry’s voice faltered. He thought of that night, of seeing his mother, his father, Sirius, Remus...

“The stone,” Ron said quietly, then swore. “That’s what it was, in the Snitch, wasn’t it? The stone. From the ring.”

“Yeah.”

“The wand, the stone, the cloak...”

“Yeah. Master of death.” Harry thought about that statement for a moment. “Apparently.”

Ron swore again, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. He still didn’t dare to look at Ron - he was afraid of what he’d see. Pity, revulsion, appreciation, amazement - or perhaps that reverence he’d seen a couple of times. He couldn’t stand any of these, not now. Not from Ron.

They stared at the grounds for a while in silence. Hagrid was down there, in front of the school, trimming a particularly nasty tree. The Ravenclaw Quidditch team was practicing in the cold wind, far away in the Quidditch pitch. They were awful, it was obvious this far away. They needed a new Keeper, and could use a different Beater or Two. An owl left the Owlery, screeching.

“I’m sorry it came out like that,” Ron said, and Harry just nodded again. “But I’m not sorry it came out.”

And at that, Harry finally looked at Ron. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t revulsion or fear. It wasn’t appreciation or amazement, and it wasn’t reverence. Ron’s face only reflected that he was talking to his best friend - and perhaps, that he was slightly worried.

“That thing’s been eating away at you, Harry, ever since the war ended. We had no idea what happened in the forest, or how you survived, or why you even went there in the first place. Hermione said it’s your need to make sure everyone was safe, that you wanted to make Voldemort think he had no reason to be worried anymore and let one of us finish the job. And man, when Neville came at him like that...” Ron chuckled. “But I knew something wasn’t right. Not the way you’ve been keeping it all to yourself. I mean, why would you not tell us if this was the case? It was nothing to be ashamed about.”

He seemed to consider his last words for a moment.

“This isn’t nothing to be ashamed about, either. C’mon, it’s not like you had any control over it, or that it affected you in any way - well,” he amended, “changed you in any way, I should say.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, I think having a piece of Voldemort’s soul kinda affected me, y’know.” It felt good to laugh about it.

“Didn’t affect who you are, though,” Ron said quietly.

Down bellow them, Hermione, Ginny and Luna were walking towards Hagrid’s hut, looking determined. Harry suspected they were thinking they’d see him there. Better stop them before they start getting worried, he thought, and got up. Ron got up after him.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, catching Ron’s eye for a second.

“C’mon, let’s go. I’m dying to hear what new creatures Luna’s heard about.”

They started towards the stairs, speculating widely about Fraptering Fligwees or Bamkling Bajoolians.

Harry was relieved when they got back down and joined the girls. The girls were relieved as well - apparently, they had thought he went to hide at Hagrid’s, and were quite worried when it turned out he wasn’t there. Ginny and Hermione exchanged glances upon seeing him - obviously, wondering what they should say, what they shouldn’t say, what was safe, what would be better left alone.

And Luna, as usual, simply didn’t care. “Here you are, Harry,” she said brightly. “We wondered whether you were going to sulk now that everyone knows you had a piece of Voldemort in you. Personally, I don’t think it’s that bad - he was a rather powerful wizard, and after all maybe you learned something from him. This is like the story of the wizard Phineas Paisley, who had nargles in his brain for three years, and managed to invent the self-stirring cauldrons in that time. He hasn’t done anything remarkable afterwards, so I suppose now everything you do will be rather mediocre.”

Hermione stared at Luna, her mouth open. Ginny did the same, but with mouth closed.

“Er, Luna,” Ron started, but was startled at Harry’s reaction - who just started laughing.

It _was_ funny. Harry couldn’t quite explain what was so funny about it, not to the rest of them. He knew the reason of Hermione’s and Ginny’s shock, knew his reactions in the past - and indeed, the way he had reacted just now - gave them every reason to be slightly worried about him. But in a way, Luna had managed to put it all into perspective. He knew it wasn’t all Voldemort. He had done enough since Voldemort’s soul had died, enough to know he had enough magic of his own.

In the end, all it meant was that he had nightmares for years, that he managed to read Voldemort’s thoughts when it really mattered, and that it helped him survive.

“Maybe I should be thanking him,” he managed to say between bursts of laughter. By now, even Hermione and Ginny allowed themselves to smile. Ron just looked at him incensed. They walked together to Hagrid’s, all five of them, and Harry didn’t mind one bit that the three had become five.

It was surprising, but they managed to have a good time all that day - until the feast in the evening. By then, Harry had filled Ron in on the meeting between Professor McGonagall and Kingsley, just as he told Hermione and Ginny the day before.

“Don’t be thick,” Ron pointed out, “what would they do with the Slytherin kids, sort them into the other houses? They’ve already been sorted!”

“Besides,” Ginny pointed out, “no one will accept them in the other houses.”

Harry wanted to protest, but realised she was right. No one would - especially not the older kids, those who had ties to Death Eaters, those who took the wrong stand the year before. But Hermione kept on looking nervously at McGonagall.

“You’re not eating your pumpkin pie,” Ron pointed out after the tenth time or so she turned around.

“I’m not feeling like - have you seen McGonagall?” she whispered at him and pointed at the Headmistress. Ron took a bite out of her plate, and turned to look where she pointed, Harry and Ginny following their gaze as well. McGonagall was not sitting to the dinner table, but instead arguing with Professor Slughorn. They both seemed upset.

Whatever their argument was about, it soon ended, and Professor Slughorn marched down the Slytherin table, patting a few students on the shoulder. Hestia and Flora Carrow got up and followed him immediately. Millicent Bullstrode looked at him confused, but also followed. Slughorn remained for almost a minute next to Theodore Nott. In the end, Nott shrugged and got up as well. He then went towards some of the younger kids - a boy Harry thought was called something-or-other Pritchard, another boy he recognised as Thomas Avery, and a few other younger kids he didn’t recognise.

For a moment, Slughorn stopped next to Pancy Parkinson. Harry couldn’t hear what he said to her, but she remained firmly seated, and Slughorn left the Great Hall, the group of Slytherins behind him.

“What’s that all about?” Ron whispered, but before any of them could answer, Professor McGonagall addressed the room.

“Everyone, I’d like your attention, please!” she called. Most of the room hadn’t noticed - the students of Hogwarts were deep into their pumpkin pie. Dennis Creevey was deep in conversation with Demelza Robins; Euan Abercrombie kept on hitting Romilda Vane with a giggling charm; over at the Ravenclaw table, Luna was deep into conversation with the Grey Lady, and Stewart Ackerley was shouting across the table at her to pass on the sugared apples; at the Hufflepuff table there seemed to be an animated discussion between Ernie Macmillan, Kevin Whitby and Eleanor Branstone. No one paid attention to the Slytherins - and only they remained completely quiet, frozen, looking at McGonagall with unhappy expressions.

“Attention!” Professor McGonagall shouted again, and the Great Hall became somewhat quieter. Finally, all that was needed was for someone to nudge Luna and draw her attention to McGonagall, and all conversation ceased.

“Thank you, Ms Lovegood,” McGonagall said, looking even more ill-tempered than she did when she argued with Slughorn.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,I’m afraid I have some bad news, that will affect the entire school.”

Harry stared at her, while whispers broke all around him.

“Quiet!” McGonagall called, and the whispers stopped. “As you undoubtedly know, there have been a lot of discussions lately in the Ministry of Magic regarding the school, in light of the last year. Despite my better judgement,” she looked even angrier as she said that, “the Ministry together with the Board of Governors have made a decision regarding Slytherin House.”

It took quite a longer time for McGonagall to stop the whispers this time. “It is the Ministry’s wish that Slytherin House be dismantled. Those who have been sorted into Slytherin and are with no ties to Death Eaters will be split between the other three houses.”

An almost uniform call of “No!” rose from three of the tables of Hogwarts. It seemed the members of the other houses were in total agreement - none of them wanted the Slytherins with them.

“Quiet!” McGonagall called again. “This is not up for discussion. That is all.”

“But Professor, if they belonged in any of the other houses, they’d have been sorted there,” said Ernie Macmillan, loud enough to be heard.

She looked at him for a moment, as if considering whether to answer or not, when someone else spoke - one of the Ravenclaws. “What about the Death Eaters? We don’t want them!”

“Yeah,” calls came up now from all three tables, loud and clear.

“No student in this school is a Death Eater, Stubbins,” McGonagall almost shouted back.

“You know what I mean,” Stubbins insisted. “They may not be, but their parents are! Like - “ he turned to the table to point some fingers, Harry assumed, but stopped, confused. None of his possible targets was seated at the table.

McGonagall’s lips were so thin that they appeared to have disappeared. “By decision of the Ministry,” she said quietly, but the room was once again quiet, the students listening to her every word, “those students with ties to former Death Eaters... have been expelled of Hogwarts.”

Stubbins cheered loudly - and he wasn’t the only one.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry muttered and got up. He had a feeling McGonagall’s eyes were following him as he left the Great Hall.

It took about five minutes before Ron, Hermione and Ginny joined him - and they were at the middle of a heated discussion.

“I’m not saying they should have been expelled,” Ginny said hotly, “but if they already are, you’d expect Pansy to be one of those expelled!”

“No one in her family is a Death Eater,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, I know that, but - “

“But she was the one who wanted to turn me over to Voldemort last year,” Harry completed the sentence for her. The other three jumped - they hadn’t realised Harry was in the common room.

“If anyone deserves to be expelled, it’s her,” Ginny said, looking at him defiantly.

Harry didn’t want to fight with Ginny, not over Pansy Parkinson. “I’d just prefer no one got expelled,” he said.

“I know, Harry,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t work like that.”

“Yeah.”

Ron seemed of half a mind to tell them to go somewhere else, or even better, step away from each other. Harry sighed and threw himself into the armchair in front of the fire, afraid of starting a ridiculous argument with Ron over his expressions and hypocrisy regarding his sister.

That danger was soon gone, though - the portrait opened again, and instead of one of the Gryffindors, the person who walked into the room was Pansy Parkinson.

Ron froze; Hermione’s lips became similar to McGonagall’s, not long ago; and Ginny’s nostrils flared.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Looks like I’m going to be your new roommate, Weasley,” Pansy said in her usual sneer.

“You? In Gryffindor?”

“Well, I’d much rather stay in my old room in Slytherin, but as you might have heard, we’re not allowed to be Slytherins anymore.”

“You can’t stay here,” Ginny said.

Pansy stared at her, unfazed. “Fortunately, Weasley, you’re not the one who gets to decide that.”

“Gryffindors are supposed to be _brave_ ,” Ginny almost spat the word at Pansy. “You don’t qualify.”

Pansy didn’t answer, just stood there, her arms crossed, staring at Ginny with an expression of absolute loathing, which was mirrored on Ginny’s own face.

They stood there, staring at each other, for a couple more seconds, when the portrait was opened once again, and the ending of the exact same discussion could be heard - this time between what sounded like Seamus, Dean and Professor McGonagall.

“You are not even a student at Hogwarts anymore, Mr Thomas,” McGonagall said impatiently, “you are really not qualified to tell me which one of my students go where.”

“But Professor, I thought bravery was a requirement to become a Gryffindor? Forgive me, but I don’t think he qualifies.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but your opinion is not required,” said McGonagall, and stepped into the common room. “Oh, Ms Parkinson, you’re here, good.”

“We get _her_ too?!” Seamus looked disgusted. “Professor, you can’t possibly be serious!”

“You are not getting anything, Mr Finnigan, seeing as much like Mr Thomas, you are no longer a student in this school.”

“But - Professor, you can’t possibly forget last year, when she - I mean - she wanted to turn Harry over to You-Know-Who!”

Pansy’s pale face turned even whiter, but she still said nothing, and neither did she move.

“I remember perfectly well, Mr Finnigan, you may recall I was there too. The decision stands. Ms Weasley, Ms Granger, a word please? Ms Parkinson, please continue to your dormitories. Mr Finnigan, stop harassing me!” McGonagall turned aside with Hermione and Ginny, while Pansy climbed up to the seventh year girls’ dormitory.

“Can you believe this?!” Seamus didn’t even try to whisper, but instead stared at Harry in dismay. “After what she did, they let her stay - and in Gryffindor!”

“Look, Seamus, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” Harry started, half mumbling, and stopped at the look of Seamus’s face.

“You’re not going to start the ‘forgive and forget’ nonsense again, are you? She wanted to give you up to You-Know-Who!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Harry answered, irritated. “And call him Voldemort, will you? He’s dead, it’s time people started using his name!”

“Alright, she wanted to turn you over to _Voldemort_!” Seamus almost shouted the name - it looked like it had taken quite an effort of him to speak it.

“I know, Seamus. I haven’t forgotten, believe me.”

“It’d be a bit ridiculous if you did,” Seamus said grumpily, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to forget that night any time soon.”

Seamus said nothing in response, but his eyes had travelled to Harry’s scar. If all the excitement made him forget about the article in the Prophet, or at least hope others have forgotten about it, he was mistaken. The slight look of revulsion on Seamus’s face was all the reminder Harry needed, even if it was obvious Seamus didn’t realise he was looking at Harry’s scar in revulsion - and would have apologised profoundly if he did.

The return of Hermione and Ginny helped divert his attention somewhere else.

“What did McGonagall want?” he asked them.

“To ask us to give Pansy a break, and to get everyone else to do the same,” said Hermione, and threw herself into another armchair.

“Like that’s ever going to happen,” Ginny muttered, and Seamus nodded in agreement.

The look on Seamus’s face stayed with Harry long after they went to sleep, cluttering the seventh year boys’ dormitories. Harry didn’t need Seamus to talk in order to know what he was thinking - why didn’t they expel the lot of them, get rid of all the Slytherins? He had no doubt there would be a lot of students and parents who would feel that way. Whatever the Ministry meant to do by dismantling Slytherin House, they had achieved the opposite. No one was going to forget where the new additions to their houses came from, no one was going to refer to those students as anything other than Slytherins - just like the Ministry, who were keeping track of those who had been in Slytherin House in their time, long after they had left Hogwarts.

Soon, the voices will start again, the same voices that had talked about Slytherin House and its problematic traditions now. They will go on how unsafe their children are together with the Slytherins, Harry thought. How disruptive the presence of the Slytherin students was in their new dormitories. Of their bad influence, even now that the children of Death Eaters were gone.

They will talk and talk and talk.

Harry wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but by the time he woke up, he realised he had made a decision.

**-X-**

“Oh, Rita, great to see you here,” Harry smiled pleasantly. He was surprised to discover he wasn’t faking his pleasantness. After everything that had happened in the past days and weeks, after he had made his decision, even Rita Skeeter didn’t bother him much anymore.

And besides, this time, he needed her.

“So, Harry, they tell me you’re going to make an announcement,” she lowered her voice, as if telling a secret.

“Yup. And I want you to take it down - well, together with everyone else here.”

“What is it? Are you going to hospitalise yourself? Are you starting to be worried about all the damage done by years of carrying You-Know-Who with you? Oh, I can just see the headline! ‘Harry Potter: I’m afraid to be a danger to my surroundings!’” Her eyes sparkled as she imagined tomorrow’s edition of the _Prophet_.

“Sorry, Rita,” he laughed. “Not today. Today you’re getting a different headline.”

“Going to see some of those Muggle... what are they called? Psychidermists?”

“Psychiatrist. Nope. Still wrong.”

She pouted. “I hope it’s going to be good,” she said, her voice becoming just slightly less kind, slightly more annoyed. “I promised the editor the most sensational story ever. There’s only so much we can get out of the Carrows getting killed.”

“Well, I’m not sure it’s going to be more sensational than the bit about me having a piece of Voldemort’s soul, but I don’t think you’re going to be too disappointed.

“Hi, everyone,” he turned from her and towards the crowd. His conversation with Arthur from several months ago came back to his mind. This was the time when he could still call press conferences and make announcements. Best make this a big one, then.

“I’ve asked you to come here today because I have an announcement to make. Erm, it’s not by accident I’ve asked you to come to the Ministry of Magic. It’s sort of connected with the Ministry...”

He took a big breath. Here goes nothing.

“As probably all of you know, I’ve started Auror training with the Ministry several months ago. Catching dark wizards is important to me,” he paused to the sound of appreciative laughter from somewhere in the crowd, and smiling, he continued, slightly more assured of himself. “As you guys know. And it’s still a priority for me.

“But I’m afraid I can’t do that any more as a part of the Ministry of Magic.”

The cameras started clicking, their flash blinding him.

“The Ministry isn’t dedicated any more to the capture of Death Eaters,” he said, his voice growing louder. “Their recent steps have targeted not only those who have shown loyalty to Voldemort, but the entirety of Slytherin House. They have stopped looking at people’s individual actions, and started marking anyone with connection to Slytherin. Despite the fact that there are Muggle-borns amongst those, and that we know of plenty of Slytherins who did not support Voldemort in the last war.

“In addition, the Ministry started using questionable methods in stopping Death Eaters. These days they’re killing Death Eaters even when they can be captured, and torture people for information. The Ministry has forgotten that the danger from Death Eaters was not only ideas, but what they had done in order to achieve them.

“If we’re going to become a better society, we need to mind the way we treat our enemies, too. Not just the good guys. As it is, I can’t continue being a Ministry employee under these circumstances. I have given the Minister the announcement of my resignation a short while ago, and now I’m giving it to you. I’ll be happy to return, once the Ministry returns to the way it’s supposed to be. Meant to be. Thank you.”

**-X-**

These are the things that Harry Potter doesn’t ask Ron Weasley:

He doesn’t ask how it’s been for Ron, who always went where Harry led;

He doesn’t ask whether it was frustrating, to not always be aware of the big picture;

He doesn’t ask whether Ron knows how much his friendship means to him, how he looks back at his mad, mad life and can’t imagine himself surviving without his friends, and Ron in particular;

He doesn’t ask what he might find himself doing that would finally turn Ron away from him.

He knows the answer to all of these questions. All but one.

And he knows he’s about to find the answer to that last one.


	10. Exactly Life Sized

Many have spoken about the methods and ways we, as a society, had to stop the murdering criminal, Tom Riddle Jr., also known as Lord Voldemort, from destroying our society for the past several years. Many will speak of it in the coming years.

One thing is already understood. It was the way we have given power to one man, here in the Ministry itself, that had allowed Voldemort to infiltrate the Ministry so thoroughly. It’s the way the decision-making process has been conducted by our own government that had allowed the Death Eaters to destroy us from within.

We can only speculate how much stronger, how better, we could have been, had we all known that Lord Voldemort came back as soon as he did.

We did not, because the Minister of Magic at the time did not want us to know. Because he had let his own fear blind him to the terrible truth. Because he did not want to admit that his power and that our society were in danger.

For this mistake, we have paid dearly.

Ladies and gentlemen, from this mistake, we should learn. The lesson is simple: We must not put our trust in any one man. Our Ministry should always have a Minister, of course. One person, the most qualified of us all, to lead us. I am pleased to say that Kingsley Shacklebolt is, by all means, that very man. He has never swayed from the path, was never blinded by Cornelius Fudge, and had given his allegiance to Albus Dumbledore and those who had fought Voldemort with him from the get go. He is a man I am proud to call Minister.

But like all men, he is limited. For that, he needs us. We, the heads of office, his trusted advisors, are also here to make sure the mistakes of the past are not repeated.

We are here to make sure that whatever happens, the wizarding world never relies on one man alone, ever again. This has almost destroyed us once; we shall not let it destroy us again.

There is another man we all know and remember, whenever we think of Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter is the unquestioned hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. He is one of the greatest heroes of the war that our world has known for the past year. Yes, he has spent most of that year outside of the public eye. Wanted by the Death Eaters and by Voldemort himself, he had fled - like any of us would have. Like many of us did. We do not begrudge him that. We are not casting blame.

Harry Potter’s life was in danger, and as everyone can testify, he was far more important to us alive than dead. No, despite the time it had taken Harry Potter to come back and save us all, he has returned, in the end. Lives were lost, it is true. People had died, people who could have been alive today. But this is not Harry Potter’s fault. He does not, I daresay, have the power to foresee the future, and he could not have guessed the number of deaths his disappearance would bring.

No, there is no place here to blame Harry Potter. Instead, we should celebrate him! Celebrate The Boy Who Lived, celebrate The Chosen One, celebrate The Hero of Hogwarts. Celebrated the man - no, not even a man, the boy who had delivered us from the evil of Lord Voldemort.

But as we celebrate the famous Harry Potter, we should remember this. Like the Minister for Magic, he is only one man. Despite the rumours of what had happened that night in the forest, Harry Potter is human - just as human as you and I. He has done remarkable things, and at such young age. But he is not infallible. He is not above the mistakes of mortal men. As we celebrate Harry Potter, we should not be enamoured by his name, blinded by his achievement.

Harry’s opinion is important to us here in the Ministry of Magic. His feedback and ideas are highly respected by all of us. We have done our best to include him in the Ministry’s most important operations since the end of the war, not just out of our respect for him, but because we truly believe his opinion is worthwhile. But we should not mistake this with the idea that he knows best. We should not change respect for submissiveness. And forgive me, but I don’t think Harry wants this, either.

Harry has paid a terrible price for the wizarding world. Not just this year, but the year before that, and the one before that, going all the way back to when he was only one year old, when he brought down Lord Voldemort for the very first time. His past is full of darkness and sorrow, his life full of tragedy. What effect these tragedies, these traumas and terrible events have had on him, we can only guess. Here at the Ministry, we fully support Harry Potter, even when we disagree with him. We wish him nothing but the best, even if his own personal trauma sometimes prevents him from seeing the bigger picture. We wish nothing but good fortune to him, even when it seems the pain of his past might be too much. Here at the Ministry, we shall continue to support Harry Potter, through whatever help he may need from us, and through whatever ordeals he may be going through. This is Harry Potter, after all. We all owe him a huge, terrible debt, one we probably can never repay in full.

But as we support him, we shall not be blinded by our respect for him. He is but one man - your Ministry, with all the different people, with different experiences and different lives, will continue to act in the way we, as a group, feel is the most beneficial to our own community. No longer will we follow one man - whoever that man is. No longer will we dismiss our own beliefs in favour of those of only one man - no matter the credentials he comes with.

You are all heroes. _We_ are all heroes. Heroes - for we have survived and came to this better times. Heroes - for we keep on surviving every day. And so we shall.

I am William Jones, and I congratulate you and salute you, all of you, the heroes of Hogwarts, the heroes of the war!

  


**-X-**  


Harry put down the _Daily Prophet_ in disgust. The last thing he needed to read was more of Will Jones’s words about him. If he thought he would have some peace and quiet after his resignation, the reported speech guaranteed that he was gravely mistaken.

A smaller headline caught his eye, beneath the big article about him. This story was also related to him, even though the Prophet failed to make the connection - it was about the dead Death Eaters. He started reading the piece, wondering if he would find there any word of criticism, any hint of disapproval of the Ministry, but to no avail. Instead, his eye caught the list of the dead Death Eaters. Rita Skeeter had listed both Alecto and Amycus Carrow in that list, and now that he thought about it, wasn’t that what she said when he met her, when he gave his resignation announcement?

Well, he had nothing better to do, he thought. Might as well go for it. He would go to see Rita Skeeter on her own turf, in the offices of the _Daily Prophet_ , and point out to her that once again, she had got her facts wrong.

He had never been to the Daily Prophet offices in Diagon Alley. He knew the building, of course. It was impossible not to - there was a big sign at the top of the building, that could be seen from any point of the street. Nor did they allow the offices to blend in with the rest of the buildings - unlike the greens, blues and whites of the shops, or the marble white of Gringotts, the office building of the Daily Prophet was painted bright red. Harry could find the building in his sleep. Now he was standing in front of it, and the only thought that crossed his mind was that it was getting uglier the closer he got to it.

It was good that he had the ugliness of the building to occupy his mind while he opened the door. He may not have been able to step through otherwise. He wondered if he was imagining the sheer hostility of the building. Everywhere he went, he could see people staring at him. Well, everywhere he went people stared at him, wherever he went, but for some reason, he disliked these looks even more than the usual ones. Not to mention the all-but-shocked way people looked at him when he stopped next to Rita Skeeter’s desk. She herself didn’t realise at first he had come there. She was busy dictating the end of yet another piece to her quill, her back to the door and to him, fixing her nails with one hand.

“... And we at the _Prophet_ ask - what?” she stopped her dictation when one of her colleagues nudged her. “What is it - no, don’t write that!” she snapped at the quill. The quill scratched off her last remarks abashed.

“You have a visitor.” The colleague was obviously terrified of her.

“Tell them to go away. I’m busy.”

“I don’t think this is someone you want to send away,” the colleague tried again.

“Well, right now I’m busy, so unless Harry Potter himself walks down that corridor, I’ve got no time for them!“

“Great,” Harry said, and Rita almost fell out of her chair in surprise, “in that case, you can turn around!”

She did. At first she just stared at him in complete shock, and then her more familiar and insincere smile came to her lips.

“Well well well. To what do I owe the honour, Mr Potter?”

“Just came to tell you that you got your facts wrong.”

“I _never_ get my facts wrong,” she narrowed her eyes, and he just laughed.

“Yeah, no. I’m not going to have this discussion with you right now. Anyway, you’ve made a mistake in one of your articles,” he put down on her desk the copy of the Prophet, with Amycus Carrow’s name circled in red. “Amycus Carrow didn’t die in that raid. He wasn’t even a part of that group. He was arrested before. That’s where the Ministry got their information from.” That’s one of the reasons I quit, he didn’t add.

“You’re wrong, Potter,” she said smugly. “I know for a fact Carrow died just like his sister.”

“I was there when they interrogated him. I don’t know where you heard that he died on the raid, but whoever told you that was - mistaken.”

He was surprised - she didn’t argue with him, she didn’t mock him, she just gave him a calculating look. And then, she went to her drawer, took out a list, and showed it to Harry.

It had the official Ministry seal on it. The title said it was an announcement to the press, concerning the raid. And there, in the list of the Death Eaters who had died in the attack, was Amycus Carrow’s name.

The letter was signed by no other than the head of the Auror office, Gawain Robards.

“He was alive when that attack was over,” Harry said quietly. “This can’t be - he was alive. Can I have this?”

Rita looked from him to the list. He knew what she was thinking - if something was going on, if the Ministry was lying about Death Eaters, this was her only indication. But he needed that list - he needed that proof. There was only one thing to it.

“Everything I learn, I tell you first,” he said. She nodded, a smile growing bigger on her face. “With one condition.”

“What’s that?” the smile was gone, and her voice was cold.

“That you actually print it. I don’t care if the public doesn’t want to hear that the Ministry is lying, I don’t care if people want to have faith in Gawain Robards - when I find the reason for the lie, you print it.”

She gave him her hand, and he took it. “You have a deal, Mr Potter.”

Reassured by her promise, Harry took the list, and Apparated to the Ministry of Magic. He sighed inwardly at the queue at the security desk and tried to kill time by looking around. The Ministry was as impressive as it’s always been - too much like it’s always been, in fact. The statue put on by Pius Thicknesse’s regime, the one that declared that Magic is Might, disappeared. Harry was already used to see the old fountain abandoned, as for the longest of times, no one knew what to put instead. It looked now like they had found their solution - a perfect replica of the Fountain of Magical Brethren now stood at the middle of the Atrium. It was exactly the same - with the sappy, adoring looks by the goblins, centaurs and house elves. Harry winced, but didn’t have long to dedicate to it, as a passing guard saw him in the queue and squeaked in surprise.

“Mr Potter! What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just needed a word with Kingsley,” Harry said evasively. A couple of words, actually. And a good shout.

“But why are you waiting here?”

“Isn’t this the queue to the security checks?” Harry asked, confused.

“Yeah, but - come on, we know you. You don’t need to go through that, come on, get in that way,” he pointed at a second gate, where a second security guard was eyeing the people, but not putting them under any magic detectors. Every once in a while, he stopped someone and redirected them to the other gate, towards the queue.

“Come on,” the security guard said.

“Yeah, but - “ Harry started, and looked from the queue to the open gate. Well, it _was_ a very long queue... he sighed and stepped through the other gate in. At the security desk, a guard was passing a magic detector around a Slytherin girl from Harry’s year, Daphne Greengrass, and ordered her to roll back her left sleeve.

He crashed Kingsley’s office without as much as a knock. Kingsley raised his head in surprise, as did Gawain Robards and Cornelius Fudge. Apparently, Harry disturbed some sort of a meeting. Good, he thought, as he walked towards Kingsley’s desk angrily.

“Harry,” Kingsley said, confused. “We’re in the middle of a meeting here, do you feel like waiting until - “

Harry slammed the list on Kingsley’s desk. Kingsley took one look at it, and nodded. “Gawain, Cornelius, if you’ll excuse us? We can finish this meeting tomorrow.”

Robards and Fudge looked at each other, almost scandalised. Fudge opened his mouth to say something, but Kingsley stopped him before he could get a single word out. “This is a matter that really can’t wait.” Fudge, in turn, just glared at Harry, and then both he and Robards got up and left.

“Close that door,” Kingsley asked Harry. Harry felt more like shouting at him, demanding what the hell did he think he was doing, but instead, went and shut the door. Kingsley aimed his wand at it - making sure no one could hear what went on in the room, no doubt.

“Sit,” he gestured at a chair. Harry remained standing, and Kingsley sighed. “Please, sit down?” he tried again. Grudgingly, Harry took the chair.

“After the interrogation, I ordered two junior Aurors to take Carrow to Azkaban,” Kingsley said gravely. “I didn’t think of asking someone more experienced - after all, it was a standard mission, and Amycus Carrow is hardly the world’s most sophisticated Death Eater. I think it was his simple cruelty that made Voldemort recruit him, he knew that he could count on the Carrows to do his work simply because it made them happy,” Kingsley sighed.

“Two hours after that, I was already in my office, busy with other things, when Gawain entered - much like you did just now. He said Carrow had tried to escape, and was killed as a result of his actions.”

“No one ends up killing an escaping prisoner by mistake!” Harry blurted out.

“I quite agree. Our junior Aurors are inexperienced - not incompetent. I told Gawain this, but he was adamant that this was what had happened. The body was no longer there, they had removed it, so there was no point in checking the scene. I called the two Aurors to my office, instead.

“At first, they kept to their story, and said he was killed while attempting escape. It didn’t take long to get the real story, though - Savage told them to get rid of him. To kill him.”

“Then why didn’t you fire him? Or put him on trial? Or something?!” Harry demanded.

“For two reasons,” Kingsley remained maddeningly calm. “The first, of course, is that he’s sure to deny it if I asked him. Without any proof, it’s the word of a Senior Auror against two junior Aurors who, as far as anyone knows, are terrified because they messed up. The second is that I don’t know whether he’s the one who gave that order.”

“But you just said - “

“Oh, Savage is complicit, not matter what. But I need to know how far this has gone - whether it was Savage’s idea, or perhaps, he was acting on someone else’s orders.”

“Robards.”

Kingsley nodded. “I’m trying to conduct this investigation on my own. Cornelius doesn’t see the point. ‘It’s just a dead Death Eater’, he said.” Kingsley sighed again. “Cornelius insists that we can’t afford to have a scandal in the Ministry at the moment. That people need to have faith in the Auror Office. We don’t have enough faith in anything else. Of this, he isn’t wrong.”

“This isn’t the way,” Harry said.

“No, I agree. As I said, I’ve tried conducting my own investigation.” He rubbed his eyes for a moment, looking as tired as Harry had ever seen him. “My own people are working against me!” he shouted suddenly, letting his frustration show for the first time. “This whole Ministry is working against me,” he said again, quieter this time, but his voice was full of bitterness. “And there’s nothing I can do about it. No, I’m afraid that so far it hasn’t gone very well.” Kingsley considered the paper for a moment. “Where did you get this?” he asked suddenly.

“Rita Skeeter.”

“I assume you had to promise her something in return?”

Harry smirked. “The exclusive story of what’s going on,” he confirmed.

Kingsley nodded again. “Perhaps this is what I needed for my investigation. Tell her - tell her that he was alive, that the Aurors claim he died while escaping - but be sure to point out how unreasonable this is.”

“And what about Savage? And Robards?”

Kingsley considered this for a moment before shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Not yet. If they start panicking, we may never discover the truth.”

Harry stared at the list for a long moment. “Who’d have thought,” he said finally. “Me and Rita Skeeter on the same side.”

Kingsley turned very serious. “You’re not on the same side, Harry. Rita’s only ever on one side - the side that would give her the best story.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be mistaken for a moment - there’s a good chance this will backfire on you. If you’re willing to be identified by name over this, you’re going to get all the fire.”

“I’m willing to take that chance,” Harry said stubbornly.

Kingsley looked at him with a combination of admiration and pity. “I know.”

Kingsley was wrong - at least at first. Publishing his accusations didn’t backfire on Harry at all. Rita Skeeter published the full story - at least, the full story as she knew it - under a big headline that claimed a cover-up at the Ministry. She quoted Harry by name, of course, as it was his testimony that proved most damning for the Ministry. And for once, Harry was pleased. The wizarding world may not have cared about Death Eaters that were killed instead of taken alive, but they didn’t take well to the killing of prisoners, nor to the lies the Ministry had told about it. Many well known and influential wizards demanded an open investigation on the matter by Kingsley, and the Minister gladly obliged.

  


**-X-**  


In the meantime, Harry was free to start his own life, a life that did not include being a part of the Ministry. It didn’t take him more than a couple of days to set a new routine. At first, he was completely lost, all alone in Grimmauld Place. It was the first time he had been alone in a long time, with nothing to do and no expectations of him. After the first night, when his attempts at making soup failed miserably, he considered calling Kreacher back from the Hogwarts kitchen. The elf had been sent there two months earlier, when Harry started his Auror training - he didn’t want Kreacher to stay all alone in the house, especially after the progress the old house-elf had made.

But although Kreacher’s company had become much more bearable the year before, he still didn’t want the old house elf to be the only living being around. Harry preferred the silence over Kreacher’s many oddities, and over the memories he would bring with him.

It was lucky, then, that George Weasley had turned up in Grimmauld Place a couple of days later, carrying a dinner invitation from Molly. Harry had been slightly worried about talking to any of the Weasleys after his public resignation, but George said Molly was nearly insulted that Harry didn’t show up for dinner before.

“And besides,” he shrugged, “Mum’s not too hot on the Ministry at the moment, anyway.” It turned out Dawlish was not the only one to lose his job over the Ministry’s new policies. While Arthur was safe due to his long association with the Order of the Phoenix, Percy Weasley had not been as lucky. He had, after all, been a Ministry employee all through the year before, until that very last night and the Battle of Hogwarts. Without an association with the Order, even Arthur Weasley’s son could not be protected, and so Percy had been sitting at the Burrow for the past couple of weeks.

“He’s really depressed,” George told Harry. “Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

That was one thing Harry had in common with Percy, he thought quietly. He, too, had no idea what to do now. In the past years, ever since Voldemort returned, whenever Harry pictured the future, he pictured the war. And when he dared imagine a future where Voldemort was defeated, he always wanted to be an Auror. And now that he had left this path, he wasn’t sure what to do anymore.

In that respect, too, George’s visit turned out to be a blessing. After the first dinner at the Burrow, with Molly questioning Harry curiously what he was going to do, George suggested Harry helped him with the shop, and Harry jumped on the opportunity.

It took exactly one afternoon to make it obvious Harry should not be working at the shop itself. “Blimey, Harry, you’d think we were selling you,” George joked after Harry escaped the people who wanted to talk to him and see him, who were full of curious questions and words of advice. There was plenty of work to do away from prying costumers’ eyes, of course, and after that first awkward afternoon Harry remained at the back room, making orders, checking on supplies, and looking at the books, while George and Angelina were at the front. Angelina Johnson had showed up to help most days, until George started paying her - over her protests.

Harry watched from the corner when George told Angelina that she had to take payment, because he can’t really hold the shop without her. He held her hand for a moment longer, and she mumbled something and was gone. But in response to Harry’s question, he only agreed to say that he thought Angelina was there because she was missing Fred.

“It’s a bit easier, I suppose. Missing Fred together, that is. Makes it feel like... I don’t know, Harry,” George sighed.

But Harry thought he did know.

Staying in the back room had more advantages than simply not getting mobbed by every wizard or witch that came to Diagon Alley. In the weeks that followed Harry’s collaboration with Rita, the _Daily Prophet_ returned to publish stories about Harry. The story about the Aurors and Amycus Carrow wasn’t enough to stop that, especially once Cornelius Fudge started a campaign to convince people how important it was to keep the public’s trust in the Ministry. After two weeks, people weren’t as concerned about a dead Death Eater anymore, not when they were warned that there were outside forces that threatened the Ministry and society in general. And Rita, true to her reputation, had gladly printed those stories as well. There were no suggestions he was seeking attention, of course, not this time. In every piece that the Prophet published about him, they mentioned him as the Hero of Hogwarts, or as the Boy Who Lives, again and again. But they took their cue from Will Jones’s impromptu speech after Harry’s resignation. Most of the pieces they published about him these days talked about the trauma he must have suffered, the effect that carrying around a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul must have had on him - still without mentioning his name, he noted with slight annoyance, and slowly but surely presenting him as a complete mental case.

At first, George and Angelina were unsure how to discuss the matter with Harry. Afraid of his reaction, they tried to hide the articles from him. But when they saw the amusement on his face, the temporary tension disappeared, and the storage room at the back of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes became filled with laughter.

Harry really didn’t care what the Prophet was writing about him. “I’ve survived Voldemort,” he told George that first day. “I think I can survive whatever they decide to print about me.” He did get tired of it, every once in a while, and then he would just shrug, or look at the Quibbler - Xenophilius Lovegood, Harry saw with amused affection, didn’t print a word about him. His latest cover story featured Flabbering Bajalians, and Harry read it in triumph. “I _knew_ it was something like that!” he told George. George just shook his head in exasperation.

To Harry’s disappointment, however, Molly and Arthur Weasley had taken the articles about him a bit more seriously. In the first couple of days after George dropped by he had stayed with the Weasleys, sleeping in Ron’s room. But one morning, when he came down to breakfast, he could hear Molly and Arthur talking quietly, in tense voices, and even though he did his best not to listen, he couldn’t help but hear his own name.

“I’m not saying there’s something wrong with Harry,” Molly said sharply. “I’m just saying, they have a point. He’s only eighteen, and the things he had seen in his life... well, it’s bound to have an effect on him! Not to mention what happened with... well, in the Forbidden Forest.”

“That’s just it, Molly,” Arthur argued. “He’s not quite like other people, is he? All those things he survived... He’s not like - “

Harry didn’t want to hear any more of this conversation. “Morning, George,” he said loudly, and the voices in the kitchen turned quiet abruptly. He kept on eating with the Weasleys afterwards, but from then on he went back to sleep at Grimmauld Place.

The real test, however, came two weeks after he his resignation. He was eating dinner at the Burrow, listening to George telling his parents all about the Belgian wizards who had visited the shop earlier that day, when the door opened and Ron walked in.

Dread and guilt both settled down in Harry’s stomach, tying it into knots. He hadn’t told Ron he was going to resign - he was too afraid Ron would try and talk him out of it, and even more afraid he would succeed. And he hadn’t seen Ron or talked to him since his resignation. Harry stared at his soup, pretending to eat, or to not have noticed Ron yet, and all the while perking his ears to hear what he might say.

“Hey guys,” Ron said. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving! Smells wonderful, Mum.”

“Ron!” Molly jumped up and hugged her son. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know. Hi Dad, George, Perce, Harry.”

Harry lifted his eyes from the soup. “Hey,” he mumbled.

Ron sat down next to him, taking a slice of bread.

“I was supposed to stay this weekend,” he said with his mouth half-full. “Doing some more stuff at the Ministry. Aren’t they going to run out of cupboards? But Seamus’s cousin is getting married next weekend so he wanted to swap. So he and Dean are staying this weekend and me and Neville are doing the next one.”

“Still cleaning up at the Auror office?” Harry asked in the most natural voice he could muster.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it! They found another archive. They’re not even sure what’s in there. It’s worse than detention with Snape!”

“Nothing is worse than detention with Snape,” George said, scandalised. “Well, maybe detention with Umbridge. Or classes with Umbridge. Or Umbridge in general.”

“This is. The whole place is covered with dust! Padma and Lavender were there last week. They said it could take months to put it all together.”

The rest of dinner went by with similar chitchat, Ron sharing his latest failed attempt to disguise himself as a rock, George talking of the new candy he thought of making, and everyone being pleasant and friendly. By the end of dinner, Harry was no longer sure whether there was any kind of tension between Ron and himself, or whether it all had been just in his mind. Ron acted throughout the entire dinner as if it were only natural that Harry would be there, natural that he had left the Auror training and was now working for George. When Harry said, after dinner, that he had better go back to Grimmauld Place, it was Ron who talked him out of it.

“What have you got to look for in there anyway?” he asked. “It’s Friday, it’s not like you need to be in London tomorrow or anything. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”

Harry followed Ron to his room, and had almost relaxed - until they got in, Ron closed the door, and faced Harry.

“You could have told me you were leaving,” he said.

Harry looked at him for a moment. “I couldn’t,” was his only reply.

“Why not?”

What could Harry say? He didn’t say anything to Ron because he knew Ron would disapprove, would look at him exactly the way he was looking at him now, and didn’t want to face that expression. Because Ron would point out all the good reasons there were for not leaving, reasons Harry had thought of himself more than once. Because Ron would tell him once again that Harry was taking the Death Eaters’ side over his own side. And Harry didn’t want to have yet another argument about sides.

So he said nothing.

Ron sat down on his bed. “It’s because I left, isn’t it,” he said flatly.

“What?” Harry was genuinely confused.

“Last year. You can’t trust me. I know you can’t, I mean, I wouldn’t. Not after I left you guys like that.”

“No! That’s not that at all. I trust you, Ron. I really do.” He was reminded, for a moment, of the time Ron left them last year. And long before that, when Ron did not believe that he did not put his name in the Goblet of Fire. The only two times he could think of when he was angry, really angry with Ron.

“Then why didn’t you say you were leaving?”

“‘Cause you would have told me I’m a stupid git. And you would probably be right.”

Ron mulled over this answer for a moment. “Well, you are a stupid git,” he said, but didn’t sound too reassured.

“Thanks.”

“You should have seen everyone when you disappeared, and then they mentioned something on the WWN about you quitting in protest... that was something.”

“How bad was it?” Harry asked, a part of him interested in his friends’ reactions, while another dreading the answer.

“About as well as you’d expect, really. Anthony Goldstein said you were completely mental, but went all ‘but he’s Harry Potter’ about it, whatever the hell that means. Seamus was angry, but I think he was more angry because you didn’t say anything than because you left. The rest... well, they didn’t say much. Except for Lavender. She kept on saying that this isn’t how this was supposed to go.” He chuckled. “Got that right.”

“Neville...?” Harry thought about that evening, when even Neville lost his temper.

Ron;s mind seemed to return the same evening. “He didn’t look very happy. But he told Seamus to shut up, so I don’t know. You probably need to talk to him.”

“Yeah.”

“And to Hermione and Ginny, too, you know. You owe them. Much more than you owe me.”

Harry nodded. If he were honest, he had to admit that hearing he owed something to _anyone_ annoyed him, even if just a bit. But in this case, he couldn’t deny Ron’s words. He did owe Hermione and Ginny an explanation. And Neville, too.

“Thanks for, um, keeping this conversation for after dinner.”

“Are you mental? I thought that’s why you wanted to escape so badly. Mum and Dad got a bit weird about you. After the war. I can’t really blame them,” he added, seeing Harry’s expression. “Look, it was your choice not to say anything to anyone. I respect that. I imagine everyone does - well, probably not everyone,” he said and Harry thought about the queue in George’s shop that afternoon he was with costumers, “but everyone that matters. But all people know is that you came back from the dead, Harry. It’s going to get some eyebrows raised.”

And some other reactions, as well. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more, Molly Weasley worrying that something was, in fact, wrong with him - or Arthur Weasley insisting that he wasn’t like other people. And these were people who knew him.

He looked for a moment at Ron, who was now busy piling clothes out of his bag to get them washed by Mrs Weasley. “How come you don’t?” he blurted suddenly, not sure he should have asked it at all.

“Not what?” asked Ron, distracted.

“You know. Raising an eyebrow.”

Ron stopped messing with his clothes, but his eyes avoided meeting Harry’s.

“I did... at first.”

There was silence between them. When Ron spoke again, he still didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I mean, I didn’t think you changed. I know you, you were always a stubborn git like that. Remember a couple of years ago when you insisted Draco was a Death Eater?”

“Well, he _was_ ,” Harry pointed out.

“Yeah, but it was still ridiculous,” Ron smiled, and went back to dig out his dirty clothes.

“Well?” Harry asked after a while.

“Well what?”

“Well, you were saying. I didn’t change.”

“Right,” Ron paused again. And now his eyes caught Harry’s, and there was something uncomfortable in them. “Well none of us would have survived that. None of us can have the Killing Curse hit them and live. Twice. It was... odd.”

“Odd?”

“Yeah, odd. Like, you’re my friend - my best friend, you know? I suppose, now that Hermione’s my girlfriend. Man, that’s so weird to say.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry laughed. “It took you guys long enough. Especially you.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ron groaned. “And now she’s making faces ‘cause Lavender’s with us in training. She doesn’t say anything, but you know what Hermione’s like when she’s unhappy. I told her Lavender’s dating Anthony anyway, and that she couldn’t care less about me, but that doesn’t stop her from making that face.”

“I suppose Ginny was a bit upset that Cho was there, too,” Harry pondered this.

“Yeah, well, especially as Cho still fancies you.”

“She doesn’t!”

Ron started laughing. “And you kept on talking about how thick I am? You should have seen Cho’s face when we realised you left!”

“But she knows I’m dating Ginny,” Harry said, confused.

“Yeah, well, when did that ever stop anyone,” Ron muttered and fished the last of his mud-covered shirts out of the bag. “Anyway. As I was saying. It was odd. On one hand, you were my best friend, the bloke I’ve known since we were eleven. And on the other hand...”

Ron looked directly at Harry now. “What you need to understand, mate, is that sometimes you’re a bit bigger-than-life. Even for us.”

“But you were there with me!” Harry insisted. “All the time!”

“Not all the time. We didn’t go to the forest. And even when we were there. Like when you showed up all of a sudden, you know? Everyone thought you were dead, and there you were, alive, and circling Voldemort, and telling him all those impossible things.”

Harry thought of the words Ginny told him months ago - the same thing, essentially. For them, it was like he came back from the dead, she said.

“You showed up there,” he said quietly. “So assured of yourself. After Voldemort - _Voldemort_ \- had declared you dead. And you told him exactly how and why he lost the fight. And then he was dead. And you were alive. I was there, and I understand what happened. And it doesn’t feel real, Harry. It can’t feel real. It’s not something we can understand. Even though we were there. It’s like a fairytale. I s’pose that’s what it feels like to anyone who wasn’t there. Or one of those Muggle comic books, you know? It looks like the good guys are about to lose, and then there’s something happening out of nowhere and the bad guys are defeated. And no one really understands why - and I asked Hermione, she said it didn’t make sense to her either and she’s Muggle-born, so it’s not because I’m missing some Muggle knowledge or something!” he added that last sentence indignantly.

Harry started arguing that Hermione wouldn’t understand comic books about superheroes anyway, and it has nothing to do with being Muggle-born. “I just don’t think she was ever interested in them enough understand them,” he concluded.

“And you were? I don’t remember any Muggle comic books.”

“Nah, but Dudley had loads of them.”

The conversation soon moved to some other forms of Muggle entertainment, mainly mocking the Muggle movies they had watched with the Grangers. Ron and Harry kept on talking all through the evening. They were so used to talking to each other all the time, about everything. Not seeing each other for this long felt weird, unnatural. Their conversations didn’t necessarily make sense - they never did, not when they were arguing about Quidditch, not when they were discussing Muggle comic books, and not when they were abusing Snape or Umbridge or talking about school. But it made sense to them, and so they talked and talked.

In the end, Harry slept on a mattress in Ron’s room, just like he did when he stayed with the Weasleys in all of their summer holidays, rather than in Ginny’s room as Mrs Weasley meant for him to do. He was having too much fun talking to Ron.

And only after Ron turned out the light and said goodnight, Harry remembered something. Something he had wanted to ask Ron, but missed his chance.

“How come you’re not angry with me?” he asked. “For leaving? I thought you’d be furious. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“I left once, y’know? I’m not stupid enough to get all angry to do it again.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, and meant every word.

Only after he heard Ron snoring did he realise he never asked him whether he still saw Harry as larger-than-life, or whether it was only his friend that he saw these days.

He didn’t ask Ron the next morning, or during that entire weekend. He didn’t talk again about this at all, not until the next weekend - when he went to Hogwarts. He didn’t mean to bring it up. Not to Ginny, who, he felt, had already given her answer, and one that he wasn’t very happy about. Not to Hermione, either. He was too afraid of hearing her answer.

Instead it was Luna who brought up the subject. They were sitting by the lake and chatting, waiting for Hermione and Ginny to finish up their Transfiguration class. Luna was going on and on about Crumple-horned Snorcacks or Blabbering Begunias, and the question just came out of his mouth.

“Do you really believe in all these? I mean, Snorcacks and Begunias and... Nargles and stuff.”

“Of course,” she looked at him. “Don’t you?”

“Not really,” he confessed.

“Just because they’re not around doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” she said wisely.

“But it doesn’t mean that they do,” he pointed out.

“I would have thought you, of all people, would find it easier to believe in them.”

“Why me?” he asked gingerly.

“You did what a lot of people thought was impossible. You were killed, and you survived. That doesn’t make you any less Harry,” she said.

“It does for some people.”

“No, when they meet you, you’re still Harry. It’s just when they don’t see you that they can’t exactly believe you’re just Harry, and think that you might be this mythological creature.”

“Harry Potter, the human Nargle,” he said and started laughing.

“More like a Begunia,” she looked at him critically. “You’re too large to be a Nargle, and I don’t think you’re very dangerous to be around, even if others think you’re crazy, because even if you are, it’s not infectious.”

Harry was now laughing in earnest, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t spend more time with Luna. By the time the girls joined them, he didn’t care what their answer would be, any more than he cared to ask them that question. He put his arm around Ginny, made jokes with Hermione, and trusted that the longer they stayed together, the less of a human Begunia he’d become.

As far as he was concerned, he could sit there, near the lake, forever. But this, of course, was not to be. There were no quiet moments for Harry Potter, even after he defeated the Dark Lord. So now, instead of relaxing, Harry could feel something watching them from behind - from the forest. His heart started pounding. There shouldn’t be anything left in the forest. At least, nothing evil. Were there Death Eaters still hiding there? They were completely exposed there, next to the lake, Ginny and Hermione and Luna - and himself. Were there still evil creatures there, Aragog’s children or werewolves or giants?

“Harry?” Ginny asked quietly. She was leaning on him until that point, she must have been able to feel his heartbeats.

“Something behind,” he whispered, and she nodded. Together, they jumped at the same time, wands ready.

But it was just a scare - it wasn’t any nasty creature who was watching them, or evil wizard, or some other terrible legacy from the war. It was a centaur - the one Harry now recognised as Bane.

“Don’t sneak on people like that!” Harry said, relieved. “We almost attacked you! Why didn’t you say anything!”

“Harry Potter,” Bane said, completely ignoring Harry’s lecture. Of course he would - why listen to any wizard? Harry sighed.

“Hullo, Bane,” he said. Now that the adrenaline was sinking again, that the short excitement was over, he was feeling tired all of a sudden - too tired to start dealing with centaurs.

But something was different about Bane. He wasn’t wearing that same expression the centaurs usually did when he saw them, that thoughtful contemplation, the distanced knowledge. Bane was smiling in satisfaction. On a human, Harry would have been tempted to say he was smirking, but it seemed like the wrong word to attribute to centaurs.

“What’s up?” he tried again, wondering what mystic nonsense the centaur was going to say today.

“Mars is leaving the shadow of Jupiter,” Bane said, his smile widening, and went back to the forest.

“What’s all that about?” Ginny wondered, and Harry couldn’t answer her - but he had a feeling he would not like the answer.


	11. Christmas Shopping

The next month went on in blessed routine. Harry would spend his days with George and Angelina, dinner with the Weasleys, and his weekends with Ron, Hermione, Luna and Ginny. After a couple of weeks, they were also joined by Neville.

Neville had taken much the same attitude as Hermione and Ginny had. He didn’t approve of Harry’s decision, that much was obvious. But even more so than Hermione and Ginny, he refused to criticise him for it.

“It’s Harry’s choice,” he would stubbornly say, and immediately change the subject, saying things like “So when do you think they’ll find the Sword of Gryffindor?” or “Have you heard the centaurs have left the Forbidden Forest? No one knows where they are!” or “Cho and Michael broke up again - honestly, Harry, I’m just glad Michael’s not training to be an Auror, or it would have been a complete disaster!”

“She’s probably depressed,” Harry agreed.

“She is - well, it’s not like after she split up with you, I guess, she doesn’t cry all the time, but she’s very quiet.”

In a weird way, Harry felt relieved that Cho wasn’t crying all the time now - even though he wasn’t around her. He loved Ginny, much more than whatever silly crush he’d had for Cho years ago, but he still liked her. She was still a friend.

“I just hope she find something to make her happy,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, Seamus has been spending a lot of time with her lately,” Neville said knowingly, and Harry laughed.

“Hey, Neville? Thanks for, you know. Not being mad with me.”

“Well I figured if you ended up on our side when you had Voldemort within you all this time, you’re unlikely to become a Death Eater now,” Neville said, and managed to maintain his serious expression for a moment or two until he burst out laughing - probably at Harry’s own expression.

“Oh, come on,” he said, rolling his eyes. “No one thinks you’re a monster ‘cause of it! No one cares!”

“I know, I’d just like it better if people stopped bringing it up,” Harry muttered, but Neville just shrugged again.

“Never going to happen, mate. If it’s about you, it’s interesting, at least until the next big news about you. It’s about time you got used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Harry said, but Neville shook his head.

“Look, no one cares that you had Voldemort in you, no matter what the _Prophet_ said. But being you is doing you a favour right now. After that speech you gave, and after that piece with Rita Skeeter - well, let’s just say that if you were anyone else I don’t think you would have got the chance to do it again.”

“Yeah, ‘cause no one would listen!”

“No, Harry. Because the Ministry would have made sure you didn’t get the opportunity.”

Harry thought he was overreacting, and said as much - he was the last person, after all, to claim that the Ministry was doing its best to keep everyone’s freedoms intact. “But so far they’ve only been targeting Slytherins. I’m a Gryffindor, they’re not going to tell me to shut up!”

“Not tell, no,” Neville said in a guarded voice.

Harry paused. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.

“I shouldn’t say anything.”

“You just did. What is it?”

“Let’s just say - you know how they always said about Mad-Eye? That’s being an Auror made him completely paranoid?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Harry,” Neville, who was already speaking quietly, lowered his voice even more, even though there was no one around, “has Moody ever ended up being _wrong_ in his paranoia?”

“Of course,” Harry said automatically. “Plenty of times. There was - “ he stopped to think of an example, but none came to mind. Thinking about it properly, he couldn’t think of one single instance in which Moody’s exaggerated security measures hampered them more than helped them.

“Yeah, exactly. And when he was criticising the Ministry, he did so behind the Auror Office’s closed doors. They know how to make people shut up when they don’t like what they’re saying. It won’t be the first time. I overheard Robards and Savage last time I was in the Ministry, they’re not happy with you, Harry. You’re still you, so they can’t touch you, not yet, anyway. Just... be careful, alright?”

Harry promised him that he would, but inside, he had so many questions. He meant to ask Arthur some of them that night, as Arthur was high enough in the Ministry - and had years of experience there - and at least he could confirm or deny Neville’s story about Moody.  
But when Arthur walked in, he gave him something completely different to think about.

“You would not believe what a day I’ve had! They moved half my department to work with Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

“Why? Do they think Grindylows stole the Sword of Gryffindor?” George joked.

“That would have been even worse,” he sighed. “The goblins want it badly. That’s half of the problem.”

“The goblins? They’re not still on about that, are they?”

“They’re goblins, George, they’re _always_ ‘on about that’. They think the Sword was theirs to begin with, and now that it’s disappeared, they blame us. Say it’s their legacy and that the wizards are hiding it from them so they won’t have to give it back. Of course, they do have a point - no wizard would want to give it back to them, it’s too important. Not to mention all the extra powers it’s rumoured to have now.”

“Extra powers?” Harry had forgotten all about his questions, and looked in interest at Arthur. “What extra powers?”

“Well, you know how each of the Founders of Hogwarts had their own special artefact? Well, of course, you know, you were the one to - anyway, each one of these artefacts had special powers, right? Well, rumour has it those special powers didn’t just disappear with the destruction of the artefacts.”

“So you’re saying, when we destroyed the Horcruxes - “

“Their powers went to the one artefact that was similar to them, but still intact and undefiled.”

“The Sword of Gryffindor,” said Harry, and Arthur nodded. “Is that even possible?”

“We don’t know. It might be - the Ministry started hiring wizards to do research on the subject. A couple of years ago we’d have simply asked Dumbledore, but now... who knows? Which reminds me - Percy, I think the Ministry will hire you for this research, if you applied,” Arthur said carefully to his son.

Percy, who had remained quiet throughout the conversation, looked up for the first time. “I don’t think I would,” he said in a measured voice. “Ollivander offered me a job. He says he’s getting too old to take care of his shop alone.”

“He hasn’t been himself ever since he was imprisoned by Voldemort,” Arthur agreed.

“So he said, if I wanted to help, he’ll be happy to teach me about wands.”

Arthur and Molly exchanged a look.

“It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea, Percy,” Arthur said slowly, “but ever since you were a boy, all you’ve ever wanted was to be in the Ministry, don’t you remember? ‘I’ll be Dad’s boss’,” Arthur chuckled. “How old were you, nine?”

Percy didn’t smile. “I doubt this is going to happen,” he said, with just a small note of bitterness in his voice. “Things just didn’t turn out this way. Besides, I was nine. Who knows what they’re going to be when they’re that age, anyway.”

Arthur didn’t bring up the subject again, and neither did any of the others.

Percy started at Ollivander’s the very next day. It was almost as if that offer from Arthur, that his dream may not be gone after all, that had pushed him to give it up altogether. Percy had always been Harry’s least favourite Weasley, and despite forgiving him for everything that had happened in the last couple of years, Harry couldn’t quite forget how easily Percy turned against him. But there was something similar with the two of them now, he reflected, as Percy had given up his dream of being one day the Minister for Magic, and Harry had given up his own dream of becoming an Auror. And as he had seen more and more of Percy - now that they were both working in neighbouring shops and meeting up for lunch as well as dinner - he started to realise that the pompous, self-assured young man had changed quite a bit, at some point when Harry was too busy to notice.

Most of the time, Percy acted as if nothing had ever happened. He wasn’t pompous towards Harry anymore, but simply friendly. He was friendly when they met around on Diagon Alley, he was joking a bit - if still serious most of the time - while they had lunch together with George and Angelina, and he kept on treating him just like anyone else in the family at dinner.

Only once did Percy ever mention that they weren’t always on the same side. It was about a week after he started working for Ollivander - they were having lunch in the back room at George’s shop when all of a sudden something crashed in the main area and George and Angelina rushed to help the small witch who was at the counter at the time.

Harry kept on chewing his sandwich, but stopped when he realised Percy wasn’t really eating, but was instead staring at him.

“Everything alright, Perce?” he asked.

Percy started nodding, but then thought better of that. “Do you agree with the Ministry? Do you think I should have been fired?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t really think they should have fired anyone but the Death Eaters,” he mumbled, “but I don’t know.”

“It was kind of obvious to see the change the Ministry went through,” Percy stated. Harry didn’t bother replying. “You had to be completely blind to think that one day, the Ministry is all about protecting Muggle-borns and helping them, then the next day, it’s all about kicking Muggle-borns out of society and going after them, and that there’s no change involved. I mean, one position was a clearly against You-Know-Who, and the other... wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t know.” Harry said sharply. For all of Percy’s obnoxious behaviour and arrogance, he wasn’t a - a Death Eater.

“I didn’t want to know,” Percy pointed out.

Harry had nothing to say about that.

“I, uh, well... I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already apologised last May,” Harry reminded him. He really didn’t want to have this conversation with Percy. He didn’t need to hear that he was right and Percy was wrong, he knew that already. There was nothing joyous or comfortable in hearing Percy Weasley apologising.

“That was to my family. Not to you. I’m sorry,” said Percy again, slightly louder this time, his face turning a darker shade of red.

“You really - it’s okay. Really. You don’t need to apologise.”

“Yeah, I do.” Percy looked directly at Harry now, not allowing Harry to divert his gaze. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and luckily, at that very moment, George and Angelina came back and the conversation moved to more comfortable topics.

‘More comfortable topics’ turned out to be George’s new candy: chocolate replicates of the Sword of Gryffindor - that kept on threatening to eat the eater. Harry stared at George with admiration mixed with horror.

“Are you sure this is the best new product you can come up with?” he asked with trepidation.

George just laughed. “Fred always said we should try competing a bit with Honeydukes,” he said. “And I always felt that new products should be topical.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s talking about the Sword these days, so I figured, why not?”

Harry couldn’t help but join in with George’s laughter, as short as it might have been. It’s been a while since he had heard him laugh - and it was a good sound to hear.

“Well, as long as the goblins don’t start demonstrating in front of the shop,” Angelina pointed out. “I can see them now, pointing to this as another way in which the wizards make fun of their traditions or something. As if the Sword is really theirs,” she added, impatiently.

Angelina’s joke turned out not too far from the truth. The goblins didn’t start demonstrating in front of George’s shop, but when Harry came in to deposit that week’s profits into the shop’s safe, he was given a very cold treatment by the Gringotts goblins.

“What do you want?” snapped the goblin in front of him.

“I’ve got - I’ve got some money to deposit?” Harry half-said, half-asked.

“From selling chocolate swords?” the goblin narrowed his eyes at Harry.

“Gorkind!” another goblin, older and looking much more menacing, called towards the goblin from a different counter. Gorkind turned quiet immediately, and they performed the rest of the transaction in relative silence - although Harry was sure the goblin was muttering under his breath.

As he was leaving Gringotts, he saw four or five goblins huddled around Gorkind, including the goblin who had silenced him earlier. They started talking furiously, each one raising his eyes every few seconds to stare at Harry. It didn’t take Harry more than a minute to leave the wizard bank, but he still felt very uncomfortable the whole time.

The experience did bring questions to his mind. That night at dinner, he asked Bill what would happen if the goblins started another uprising, like all of those he had learned about - or was supposed to, anyway, as he never remembered any of it - in History of Magic.

“I mean,” he tried to explain himself, “they’ve got access to everyone’s gold.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said a thoroughly unconcerned Bill as he took a second helping of potatoes and peas. “The goblins would never steal wizards’ gold, even if there’s another war. They would consider it the height of dishonour.”

“Is there going to be another war? They seem pretty angry about the Sword of Gryffindor.”

Bill sighed. “They have all heard how Griphook got it by now. It’s saved him from being a complete outcast, and that says something.”

Harry’s hand stayed in the air, between his plate and his mouth. “Why would Griphook be an outcast?”

“Well, he did help you guys break into Gringotts, didn’t he? Like I said - stealing is the height of dishonour. A goblin can cheat, lie, even murder - but stealing? Never. They wouldn’t let Griphook anywhere near Gringotts these days. Not that he’s starving, mind,” Bill added after seeing Harry’s expression. “They’re making sure he’s got more than enough money. They consider him a hero.”

“So he’s a hero for getting back the Sword, but dishonoured because he had to steal in order to get it? Don’t they ever make up their minds?”

“Goblins are complicated,” Bill replied, and Harry remembered his forgotten fork and took another bite.

“Anyway, Harry, I don’t think there’s going to be another war. This isn’t like the old rebellions - it’s not in their best interest to start a war now. Sure, there are some hot heads who are clinging to the matter of the sword, hoping it would start a new war, but most of the goblins are comfortable with the present situation. They’ll grumble and get angry and every time someone like George baits them a bit more they’ll be even more unpleasant, but I shouldn’t worry too much.”

Bill chewed his steak for a moment or two. “Actually, if I were you, I’d have bigger things to worry about.”

Harry sighed. He knew what Bill was talking about - the Ministry and the Prophet, of course. “They can write whatever they want,” he said, trying to pretend he didn’t care, and making sure to ignore the Ministry’s part of the equation. “They’re going to get nothing out of it, so who cares?”

“Don’t be so sure,” Arthur said quietly. “Remember what happened with Auror training?”

“Well, right now I’m not applying for anything Ministry related,” Harry said stubbornly, “so it’s not the same thing at all.”

But the Prophet knew they could still fill in pages and pages by writing about him, and so, they didn’t seem very keen on giving up their new pet stories concerning Harry. A week after that conversation, they had published a new article on the possible influences of the Killing Curse on the human brain, a new article on the effect of childhood traumas on adolescents, and an interview with Will Jones in which the politician kept on saying how it wasn’t Harry’s fault at all that he had a piece of Voldemort within him.

“No one said it was my fault before,” Harry complained in a Hogwarts dinner to a sympathetic Neville, who managed to be completely supportive but still give him a look that seemed suspiciously similar to his I-Told-You-So look. Harry started to realise it would take an exceptional event to divert the Prophet’s attention from him and unto other, unrelated topics.

  
**-X-**   


Christmas was coming. It was impossible to tell from the weather, as London had remained decidedly rainy and foggy during the entire month of December, refusing to shed even one white flake on its disappointed citizenry. Some people at the Ministry joked that perhaps they should magic snow, at least for Diagon Alley, to get people more into the spirit of festivities. The idea, of course, was quickly shot down after a scathing article in the Prophet that complained about the government spendings. “We are wizards, we don’t need to spend money on snow,” the indignant response came, but in the end, there was no snow - artificial or natural - in Diagon Alley that December.

The lack of snow did not make it any less cold. People huddled in their homes, in front of the fireplace - or other heating facilities, where available - drinking hot cocoa and waiting for the rain to stop. In Diagon Alley, people rushed from one shop to the next, doing their best to spend the minimal amount of time outside in the unending rain.

Considering that, Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes was surprisingly full. The students of Hogwarts were back home for the holiday, and quick to test all of George’s new products - from self replicating hats (“You might lose your head but you’ll always have something to put on it!”), through the new collection of fake wands (“turning into ducks, rabbits, and armadillos as well as the classic chickens and mice!”), to the chocolate swords, which turned out to be extremely popular. Not that the old classics were forgotten - George continued to sell copious amounts of Headless Hats, Edible Dark Marks, and Pygmy Puffs.

“We need another box of edible Dark Marks,” Angelina sighed as she poured herself a cup of tea. “I think people like the taste. I thought they’d surely go out of fashion now that You-Know-Who’s gone, but there you go.”

But Harry wasn’t as surprised as Angelina at the popularity of the Dark Marks. “Don’t forget, people couldn’t really enjoy them last year,” he reminded her. Voldemort wasn’t old news. It would be a while before that happened. “I guess people are just happy that it’s safe again to laugh at him,” he said. “And if you ask me, the more the better. People should be laughing at him, rather than still afraid of him.”

She ignored the implied critique in his voice about her choice of word to name the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and any bloody epithet she chose instead of his proper one, Lord Voldemort.

“Oh, and we’re going to need another box of fake wands. The armadillo ones, the kids love them.”

“Sure. How did George come up with armadillos, anyway?” Harry wondered aloud, and Angelina chuckled in response.

“I know, right? I don’t think even Fred would have been able to come with such a random animal, but they actually work.”

“Probably because they’re so weird,” Harry mused.

“Yeah, that’s what George figured out when he thought about it - you should have seen it! We were...” she hesitated for a moment. “Anyway, we were talking about something else entirely, and all of a sudden he says ‘Armadillos!’.” She laughed.

“And what did you say?”

“What d’you think? ‘Where?!’ I thought we were about to be attacked by a rabid pack of armadillos.”

Harry laughed as well.

“That’s what’s so fun about this job, you know? The mad stuff George keep on coming up with, even if most of it never happens. Like now - last night I saw him trying to make those self-digging shovels work for the thousandth time, it’s never going to work, but it’s so much fun just watching him try.”

“Is that why you’re staying here?” he asked her, and she flushed. “It’s just that I know the Hollyhead Harpies asked you to join in as a reserve, George mentioned it, he was surprised you didn’t take them up on the offer...” his voice trailed, as Angelina became more and more flushed.

“Yeah, no, I’d have taken it if it was an actual spot, but I don’t feel like sitting on the bench game after game. And it is fun here, and then there’s...” she didn’t finish the sentence as well.

There was a second of awkward silence between them, but then it was broken by the best of distractions - good friends. The shop’s back room was suddenly lit up when all the people Harry loved the most in the world walked in - Hermione and Ginny, who came back from Hogwarts for the holidays, and Ron and Neville, who had a similar break from their Auror training. Their little gang was almost complete, if it wasn’t for Luna’s absence, as she had gone with her father to hunt rare Ice Kiipis in the lakes of Finland.

“How are they’re going to find creatures in a lake when the lakes are frozen?” Ron asked for the fourth or fifth time.

“Ron, Xenophilius Lovegood has gone to find some of his creatures and the only reason it bothers you is because _it’s the wrong season for them_?” Hermione said, amused.

“You know, one day they’re actually going to find one of these creatures,” Harry said, and they all looked at each other for a moment before saying together - “Nah!”.

“The day this will happen will be the day Luna Lovegood teaches Care of Magical Creatures,” Hermione said.

“Hey, it can’t possibly be as bad as a whole year of Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Ron pointed out. He seemed to be amused by the idea of Luna Lovegood, the Care For Magical Creatures Professor.

“I don’t know, Ron, would you like to spend a whole year trying to find a Nargle?”

“It could be a good exercise!”

“Yeah, ‘cause climbing seven flights of stairs only to get to the nearest toilet isn’t...”

“What? When was that?”

“ _Where_ was that?”

And so, Neville found himself retelling the story of how he could never find the toilets on the third floor - “they were always moving around! It wasn’t my fault!” - and had to climb all the way to the seventh floor because that area of the Hogwarts Castle didn’t have any flights of stairs leading to the fifth floor.

“This,” Ron surmised when Neville stopped talking, “could only ever happen to you.”

“No,” Neville said proudly. “Seamus climbed up all the way to Gryffindor Tower every time he wanted to go to the loo for our entire first year. He didn’t even _know_ there were other toilets in the castle!”

Their laughter was so loud that George had to show up and ask them to keep it down a bit. “I think they hear you guys all the way to Ollivander’s,” he said, and they promised to be quieter.

“How is Seamus, anyway?” Harry asked. He didn’t have the chance to talk to him since he had left the Auror training. From the way Ron and Neville exchanged looks, he could only assume the absence of owls wasn’t by accident. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“Well,” Ron said with a fake cheer, “he got decorated.”

“Really? How come?”

“It was an accident, really,” Neville said quickly, but didn’t continue.

“Accident he got decorated? What, did they fall and pin a medal on his chest by mistake?” Ginny said sarcastically.

“No. He, uh - well, you know who Selwyn is, right?”

“He’s a Death Eater, isn’t he?” Ginny asked. “He’s all over the posters, I think he’s on the top of the wanted list of the Ministry?”

“Yeah. He’s the one who locked up Will Jones, he got his wife killed.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry said.

“Yeah, well, so obviously, that was enough to make him one of the Ministry’s most wanted. But then we got information that he’s the one leading the Death Eaters, he’s in charge of the attacks.”

“Bet Will Jones loved that,” Hermione said quietly.

“Exactly. Anyway, about a week after you quit, Harry, the Auror Office gets information about him, so everyone goes looking for him, right? And I mean everyone. Even Savage. He shows up, all running and stuff, drops us in the middle of this town in the middle of nowhere, says that they think there’s Death Eaters there but there’s no one to check it so would we please find and arrest the Death Eaters, and Disapparates to join everyone else hunting for Selwyn.”

“What?” Harry stared at Ron. “That’s completely ridiculous.”

“I know! We were all nervous, really nervous. Lee started thinking it was some kind of a test.” He shuddered. “It’s lucky it wasn’t. Seamus would have probably followed you if it was.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Well, you remember how nervous he gets when we go after Death Eaters.”

“Yeah.” Harry remembered. He remembered Seamus casting the Killing Curse on and on in the forest, the last to stop. “I remember.”

“Yeah, well, we found the Death Eaters. They were there, just like Savage said. And Seamus panicked. He blew up a whole house by accident.”

Ron stopped talking, and Neville picked up from there. “He was so shaken - he was so pale afterwards. And he kept on repeating Lee’s words, what if it’s a test, what if he killed all those people. And then, obviously, because of the explosion, the rest of the Aurors started showing up. And the Minister for Magic, too. And they started shouting at each other, he was shouting at Savage for ages, that he was being irresponsible and that he should never have left us alone, and that it’s all his fault, and then Robards tried calming him down and he started shouting at Robards - “

“ - And then, you wouldn’t believe it, Robards said something like ‘They were just Death Eaters’ and Kingsley _really_ lost it.” Ron interfered, and gave Harry a knowing look. Harry, of course, had shared with him his last conversation with Kingsley - they both realised what was really going on there.

Neville shuddered. “Yeah, it was pretty awful. And all that time Seamus is just watching them and getting more and more pale. I thought he’d lose it too. We tried to calm him down, tell him that Kingsley’s blaming Savage, so no one’s going to blame him, and that we shouldn’t have been left to do it alone in the first place, but he wouldn’t calm down.”

“Anyway,” Ron continued the story, “that night Anthony was listening to that Death Eater Watch programme, I’m telling you, it’s like he’s completely obsessed with it, Merlin knows why, and they were practically gloating about it all, and Seamus and Anthony got into a real fight over this, I had to cast a Shield Charm between the two of them to prevent them from destroying the dormitories, and Neville threatened to use the full Body Bind Curse if they didn’t stop. Then in the morning Seamus was better, but then he read that interview you gave to the Rita Skeeter about Rowle, and started having a go at you. So me and Neville told him to shut up. And then Robards showed up and said they were going to give him another Order of Merlin second class for killing those Death Eaters, you know, because the official story is how there was a fight and all that, and he’d been bragging about it ever since, as long as no one reminds him that these could just as well have been innocent people.”

“They decorated him for the benefit of the official story?” Harry said angrily.

“Won’t be the first time, that’s what Savage said. That it’s not like it’s the first time this has happened. But I don’t think it was the only reason, I mean, he was really upset that day, they must have noticed.”

“They probably realised that their approval would make him feel better,” Hermione said shortly, and Ron nodded.

“Yeah, something like that. Telling him he did alright, so he’d stop beating himself over it. Well, it worked, anyway. If I were you, Harry, I wouldn’t drop by his house anytime soon. He was really angry with that interview.”

“It’s completely ridiculous,” Harry protested.

“Maybe,” Ron said darkly, “but you didn’t hear him when he read the Prophet that day. You didn’t make any friends with that interview, I’ll tell you that.”

He turned out to be right, of course. The package of various Weasley products Harry sent Seamus as a Christmas present was returned unopened. And he wasn’t the only one. Some of these were more subtle than others - Anthony Goldstein, for example, sent Harry a Christmas card that simply said “I still think you’re completely mad. But happy Christmas”. But Lavender didn’t return a Christmas card at all, and neither did Katie. A small part of him wished Cho would have been angry with him as well, as Ginny was not very happy with the large box of Honeydukes chocolate he had received from her, but he was mostly glad she wasn’t angry with him, too. And besides, Ginny’s annoyance was momentary - when Harry pulled it out as another dessert after Mrs Weasley’s wonderful Christmas dinner, she had happily ate of the chocolates with the rest of them.

“You’re not angry, are you?” he asked her quietly, just to make sure.

“Of course not,” she said, then paused for a moment. “Oh, Harry, you’re just... so _naive_. Cho never really got over you, you know.”

“I don’t know. She seemed quite happy with Michael. I like her - I want her to be happy with someone, you know. Like I am with you.” The kiss he gave her could have sealed the discussion, if it weren’t for Ron’s words from what had to be three years before that came into his mind, of how snogging should have cheered Cho up. He started giggling into the kiss, and had to break it off before laughter took over him.

Ginny looked at her boyfriend, confused. “I’m going to assume I shouldn’t be insulted,” she said after a moment, with a spark of amusement in her eye.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to control his laughter. “No, I mean - this is all Ron’s fault!”

“Oh, great, just what I needed, you bringing up my brother when I’m trying to snog you. I can think of better things to think about,” she said and advanced towards him - and then had to stop because of a new giggle fit.

“I - uh - think I need a glass of water,” Harry said.

“Sure - bring me another one of those chocolates, will you?”

He went down to the kitchen still chuckling, Ginny’s smiling face still on his mind. He was happy - the first time he was really happy in quite a while. It shouldn’t have been like that, he thought for a moment, the joy giving away to sadness. Voldemort was gone, he should be happy all the time now, doing what he enjoyed doing. But everything’d become so complicated, and in some ways, even more complicated than it was before. Only with Ginny was he truly happy, he thought. With Ginny, with Ron, with Hermione. Perhaps he should have gone back to Hogwarts, to spend more time with the people he loved most, wait a bit before becoming a responsible adult again. But it was too late for that, he sighed, and tried to get those thoughts out of his mind, to think again of Ginny, who was waiting upstairs for her chocolate. He picked up the best one he could find, and tiptoed back upstairs.

He got slightly distracted on the way up - George’s room door was half-open, and from the hallway he could see George and Angelina kissing. About time, too, he thought, but then George opened his eyes and looks straight at him, and he could feel his cheeks growing red and continued upstair, to Ginny.

The next day, they all went to Diagon Alley. The shop was to be open half a day and George needed Harry around, while the rest of the family went on to do some last-minute shopping.

Harry was deep into cataloguing fake wands when George walked into the room.

“Hey, Harry, how’s it going?” he asked.

“Looks good, I think you better make another order of those fake wands.”

“Listen, can I have a word?”

“Sure,” Harry mumbled, trying not to lose count of the wands.

“It’s about last night,” George said, and Harry gave up all notion of counting the wands. Instead, he gave George a big smile.

“I think it’s brilliant,” he said, “you and Angelina.”

“Yeah, about that... Listen, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour... please don’t tell anyone.”

George wasn’t smiling back at Harry. In fact, he looked quite miserable.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“It’s a bit hard to explain.”

“Don’t you like her?”

“I do - I’ve done for a long time, you know? Still at Hogwarts. Fred was also crazy about her. And then they were dating on and off for a while, and... well,” he sniffed. “You know. He got there first, I mean, I never minded, but Angelina cared a lot about him and now... I don’t know, Harry,” he sighed.

“Don’t be thick. You’d have to be blind not to see how the two of you have been the past months. She’s not with you because of Fred.”

“I just don’t know where it’s going. So just - you know, don’t say anything. If Mum even starts suspecting - “

“ - you’ll never hear the end of it,” Harry completed the sentence for him, and George smiled, and for a moment, he looked so much like himself.

“Now get back counting those wands!”

“You’re really bad at this boss thing,” Harry observed, and George shrugged.

Harry shook his head and went back to counting. As the last day before the holidays, it was turning out to be much more interesting than he had expected.

And then the explosions started.

Harry jumped at the first one, wand in hand. A second one could be heard - closer to the shop.

“George!” he shouted, and his boss showed up, wand in hand.

“It’s coming from the street,” George said in a strained voice, and they both left the shop - and whatever costumers were there - and rushed into the street. The entire Weasley family were outside there, finishing up on their Christmas shopping. From George’s pale face, he could see he was thinking the exact same thing.

People were running down the street, screaming. Another explosion could be heard, near Scribbulus Writing Implements, and getting closer all the time. Harry ran against the stream of running people. He didn’t even stop to wonder at how, for once, no one was paying attention to him. Some even pushed him aside, trying to get as fast as possible to the far side of the street. But both he and George continually progressed up the street, towards the explosions.

For a moment, Harry thought he could see red hair ahead, between the crowd. “Ginny!” he shouted, but if it really was Ginny, she couldn’t hear him. He started running in earnest, not noticing the explosions had stopped.

Away from the people, in front of Madam Malkin’s robe shop, Ron was lying on the ground, his wand several feet away. “Ron!” Harry called and rushed to check on his friend, but Ron just muttered “Ginny,” and signalled Harry to go on.

His heart beating fast, fear taking over him, Harry rushed further. Not Ginny, he thought, they can’t have done anything to Ginny. For a moment, the hatred filled him - hatred for the Death Eaters, who came to destroy Christmas, to destroy his time with Ginny, who now threatened her; hatred for all of those who helped them; even anger at himself, how stupid he’d been, how he had let his stubbornness blind him, and now Ginny was in danger, and if anything happened to her -

But as he turned around, Gringotts bank appeared before him, and in front of it an unlikely sight. Ginny was indeed there, but she was alright. In fact, Ginny and Hermione were casting Shield Charms, preventing a group of goblins from getting close to a centaur, who was lying on his back in the middle of the street.

Relief engulfed Harry as he rushed towards the two. “Is everything alright?” he asked urgently, and Hermione nodded, casting another Shield Charm to stop a new excursion by the goblins - the tallest one tried running towards the centaur again. Only now, when he relaxed, Harry could scan the scene properly, see the angry faces on the goblins’ faces, the blood on the centaur.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A goblin started attacking him in the street,” Ginny said shortly. “We couldn’t let that happen, could we? So I cast a Shield Charm, just to separate them, and all of a sudden five more goblins came at us, out of nowhere - will you stop that!” she said angrily.

The goblin, tired of the magic used against him, crossed his arms and stared at Ginny in disgust.

“What happened to Ron?”

“Oh,” Hermione giggled. “He, um, fell.”

Ginny giggled as well.

“Oh, we shouldn’t laugh, it was pretty awful, it looked like everyone was running him over!” Hermione said, sounding slightly guilty. “But he turned out to be alright, just with some nasty bruises. I don’t even think anything’s broken.”

“Will you stop doing that?” snarled one of the goblins at her.

“If you stop attacking that centaur, yes,” Hermione said pleasantly.

“Our matter with the centaur is none of your business, witch,” spat another goblin.

“It is when you’re attacking him in broad daylight in the middle of Diagon Alley,” Ginny pointed out, and the goblin snorted.

“Wizards!” he said.

“Look, we’re not going to let you kill him. My Dad is going to show up any minute with Ministry officials and healers from St Mungo’s, so really, the best thing for you is not to be here when he arrives,” Ginny pointed out to the goblins.

They eyed her angrily, and then talked between themselves in the sharp, short tones of Gobbledegook. After a short argument - or perhaps a pleasant discussion, for all Harry knew - they threw Ginny and Hermione a dirty look, and started walking back into Gringotts.

“We can’t let them just go in,” Harry said. “No one will be able to catch them!”

“There are hundreds of goblins there, Harry, I don’t really think we can stop them. Let the Ministry deal with them.”

Harry nodded and went to check on the centaur. His body was covered in light brown hair, and a similar beard covered his face, but now they were both mangled in blood. He had opened his eyes then, looking back at Harry with eyes that were kind, but also tired - and frightened.

“Harry Potter,” the centaur muttered.

“It’s okay, save your strength,” Harry said. “The healers will be here in no time.”

The centaur nodded weakly.

Ginny and Hermione joined Harry near the centaur. “Where do you come from?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Hermione, he’s bleeding badly. Don’t you think we should wait with this until he gets some treatment?”

“He’s one of the centaurs who lived in the Forbidden Forest, Harry,” she whispered in reply. “I’ve seen him around.”

“Still, it can wait,” he answered.

“Don’t you know any charms to heal him?” Harry asked, as the blood kept on pouring from the gashes on the centaur’s body, staining his brown coat. His face became paler and paler by the second. “Hold on,” Harry whispered to the centaur, and looked at Hermione.

“Anything”? he asked, but she shook her head.

“They’re all just for humans,” she said. “I don’t know how to heal centaurs.”

“Well, let’s hope the healers of St Mungo’s do,” Ginny said darkly.

They kept on looking at the centaur helplessly, while the minutes ticked away. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow. If the healers did not get there soon, Harry realised, they would not be able to save him, even if they could. Hermione realised it too. Despite her professed lack of knowledge on the subject, she started passing her wand above the centaur’s wounds, whispering incantations. But it didn’t seem to work. Blood still flowed freely onto the centaur’s body and down to the pavement.

Around them, people started walking back into the street. With the danger over, the unexplained chase stopped, the fear had left those late Christmas shoppers, and they came out again to look at the source of the disturbance before returning to their shopping. He even recognised some of them. Here was Professor Trelawney, who had rushed into Gringotts at the first sign of trouble; Romilda Vane, with a bag full of Weasley products, her face pale; and Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin girl from his year, muttering about how people were living and working there and how the stupid goblins were making a nuisance of themselves before storming back into one of the houses above the shops. And there were more, many more that he did not know, and they all stared at the scene. Some were curious, some were still afraid, some were angry - angry that goblins and centaurs were fighting in the middle of the street, angry that their kids now saw a centaur bleeding to death on the pavement, angry that there was no Ministry official around to stop them.

“Here he is!” a small witch called at the sight of Robards. “What do you call this?” she pointed at the bleeding centaur. “In the middle of the street! In broad daylight! What is the Auror Office going to do about it?!”

“Nothing,” Robards said calmly.

“What?!” the witch almost exploded.

“I understand from Mr Weasley here the attackers were goblins?” he asked around, and Ginny nodded. “Well, then, this goes under the jurisdiction of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,” he said dryly.

“They were fighting! Right here! Look at the cuts on that centaur, it could have been a wizard!”

“But it wasn’t, Mrs James,” Robards answered pleasantly. “Now, if you allow me to continue my own shopping, Henderson here will be happy to answer all of your questions, seeing as this actually falls under his jurisdiction.” And before Mrs James could reply, Robards was gone, without giving a second glance to the centaur - or to Harry. Henderson, on the other hand, started walking towards Harry, but Mrs James cornered him with a list of demands.

“Mr Henderson!” Harry called at last, despairing of the Ministry official being able to fend Mrs James on his own. “He’s really not doing well!”

“What? Oh, right! Mrs James, I must - “ Henderson muttered and knelt next to Harry.

“Is there anything you can do for him?” Harry asked anxiously.

“Where are the healers?” Hermione asked, her voice just as anxious.

“Well, they should be here,” Henderson said, almost embarrassed.

It took the mediwizards another 15 minutes to arrive, and when they did, it didn’t seem as if they knew what to do for the centaur, either. Harry tried to offer his help, but was told in a snappish tone that it was not needed and that he should let them do their job, so he nodded and simply asked them to notify him on the fate of the centaur - even though he could see from his face it was probably a lost cause.

They walked back to find Ron. Some of the people in the street helped him up, and despite an ugly gash in his trousers and a little bleeding, he looked fine, and could already stand on his foot, if a little unsurely. They didn’t remain long in Diagon Alley afterwards - it was getting late, and Molly was waiting for all of them at the Burrow, with her wonderful Christmas dinner.

There wasn’t a lot of festive air in the room during dinner. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were mostly quiet. The Grangers mainly engaged Molly, while Arthur was sitting in silence next to Andromeda Tonks. Just when they thought the dinner couldn’t be any quieter, an owl arrived from St Mungo’s, informing Harry that the centaur had died. He did not regain consciousness at all.

It was only after dinner that Harry thought of something else - with the death of the centaur, they had no idea what went on in the street, what happened between the centaur and the goblins of Gringotts.

“D’you reckon something’s up with the goblins?” he asked Ron quietly. “Remember that day when we found them all secretive at that house? And now this?”

“Yeah, and with the centaurs of Hogwarts leaving...” Ron said thoughtfully.

“They’re really gone?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, I overheard a couple of the Aurors talking about it. So far, no one’s doing anything about it, because there just aren’t enough people to worry about the centaurs - and I reckon they’re allowed to go wherever they please, you know? They just never wanted to leave their forest until now. But a centaur in Diagon Alley is weird.”

“And goblins fighting with centaurs is weird. I’d like to know what that’s all about,” Harry sighed.

Ron was already asleep, full of the wonderful Christmas dinner. Harry decided to do the same. He’ll worry about goblins and centaurs later.


	12. Visitors

The holidays were drawing to an end, and for the first time for seven years, Harry regretted the end of the holiday. Hermione and Ginny were to go back to Hogwarts; Ron was heading back to his Auror training, which, he claimed, was “no fun without you” as he tried to get Harry to come back. And Harry would stay on his own, for the first time since the beginning of the holidays. It felt weird, and despite spending the past couple of months on his own, Harry couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of separating again from them. He’d known for a while how much he needed them, but he didn’t realise how much he would miss them, and how bad he would feel leaving them again, how unnatural, and how weird. And it didn’t help that at the very last evening of the holiday, things got weirder.

It started with a knock on the door. They were all sitting in the living room, just being together, not expecting anyone else. Andromeda and Teddy had come and gone earlier that day, Bill and Fleur had already left, and everyone else who could think of visiting the Weasleys on Christmas was present, even Hermione’s parents.

And yet, there was a knock on the door.

“Who could that be?” Arthur asked, furrowing his brow.

“Who could who be?” Molly asked from the kitchen.

“Isn’t anyone knocking?”

“Knocking? Who’s knocking at this hour?” Molly said, not hearing half of Arthur’s words.

“There’s someone at the door,” Arthur replied.

“Pardon?”

“There’s someone at the door!”

The water coming out of the kitchen tap masked any possibility of comprehension. “I couldn’t hear you, Arthur, you’ll have to speak louder!”

Their surprise visitor kept on knocking.

“There’s someone at the - oh, nevermind!” Arthur, defeated, got up to open the door.

From his seat next to the fireplace, Harry could see Arthur - but just barely. He saw him walking to the entrance, he saw him fumbling with the bolts and opening the door - and he saw him freezing in place.

Out of instinct, without any thought, Harry got up as well, drawing his wand. Arthur Weasley wasn’t a man who tensed easily, and whoever it was at the door, it couldn’t have been a regular social call.

He heard the voice before he saw the face. “... So I thought he’s probably here,” said the familiar voice of Draco Malfoy, strangely devoid of the arrogance that Harry usually associated with it.

“What is it to you?” Arthur said defiantly.

“I just wanted to talk to him, that’s all,” a shadow of the arrogance returned to Malfoy’s voice with these words, as a response to the unexpected challenge.

“It’s okay, Arthur,” Harry said from behind him, making sure his wand was tucked back in his trousers. It turned out not to be quite a good idea - Malfoy’s eyes darted from Arthur to Harry, and for a moment, he looked as if he was regretting showing up in the first place.

His months in Azkaban had changed Draco Malfoy. Harry remembered interviewing him there, only a few days after his arrest. He had already been paler than usual then. Now, he was as white as a ghost. It wasn’t just his lack of colour, though. There were dark bags under his eyes, which themselves looked dull and lifeless, and he was thinner than ever Harry remembered him - in short, Draco Malfoy looked ill.

“Potter,” Malfoy half-greeted, half-accused Harry.

“Malfoy,” Harry responded in kind.

The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then became six, as Ron, Hermione and Ginny joined them, all glaring at Malfoy. If a moment ago Harry wondered whether Malfoy was regretting showing up at the Burrow, he was now sure of it.

“Erm,” he said, because he had nothing better to say. Malfoy’s eyes didn’t leave his face. “D’you want a cup of tea? Or something?”

“Sure,” Malfoy answered and stepped inside the house. Ron scowled at him, but said nothing to contradict Harry. He made to follow Harry, as did Hermione and Ginny, but Harry stopped them at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Guys, would it be alright if I talked to him alone for a moment? I think it’d be better that way.”

“What if he - “

“I doubt he’s going to try and curse me or anything. He’s just out of Azkaban, remember?”

Hermione nodded, but Ron stayed planted to his place, glaring at Malfoy. “C’mon, Ron,” she said, and nudged him back towards the living room. Harry gestured towards the kitchen and opened the door - just as Molly got out, her hands full with a huge cake.

“Oh, Harry, dear, so nice of you to open the door for me!” she beamed at him and started navigating towards the living room, but then stopped, when she saw who he was accompanied by.

“Aren’t you the Malfoy boy?” she snapped at him.

“It’s okay, Molly, really. We won’t interrupt you guys,” Harry said in his most reassuring voice, and held the door wide open, hoping Malfoy would take the hint and go inside. He did - or, perhaps, he did not want to keep on standing there and be stared at by Molly Weasley. Harry was about to follow him, when Molly’s voice stopped him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Harry,” she said.

“I hope so, too,” he smiled and walked in.

Malfoy was standing by the door nervously. He didn’t sit down near Molly’s great oak table. He looked too nervous to do so uninvited. If anything else, Azkaban had taught Draco Malfoy humility.

“Milk? Sugar?” Harry went to the pot to fix both of them tea.

“Just milk. Thanks.”

Harry fetched two cups and poured the tea. Malfoy was still standing when he brought the cups back to the table.

“You can sit down, you know,” he said and sat down himself. Malfoy hesitated for a moment, then did the same.

“How long have you been out of Azkaban?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shuddered at the name - just as, not long ago, he did at the name of Lord Voldemort. Fear was a constant thing, even if its subject had changed with time.

“About a week,” he answered, and took a sip of the tea, clearly savouring the taste. Tea was probably not served at Azkaban, Harry thought darkly - and then his brow furrowed when he thought of Malfoy’s answer.

“They didn’t release you for Christmas?”

Malfoy shrugged. “The sentence was for five and a half months from the day of the trial. That included Christmas.”

“But it was only a couple of days! It’s ridiculous.”

Malfoy looked into his tea. “It really doesn’t matter. There’s no one home anyway. And actually, the Ministry sealed the house. They didn’t let me go back there.”

Harry had forgotten - Narcissa Malfoy was also in Azkaban, and still had two years to serve of her sentence. And Lucius - well. He was going to stay in Azkaban for a long, long time. The awkward silence engulfed the room once again.

“Where have you been staying?” Harry asked, just to break the silence.

“Daphne Greengrass. She lives in Diagon Alley.”

Harry barely knew Daphne - she was in their year, but one he had never really talked to - and it was probably for the best, he thought.

“I - uh - was going to stay with Pansy, but then we had a fight,” Malfoy said, mainly to break the silence as well. He didn’t look as if he expected Harry Potter to care about his friends, girlfriends, or who he had fought with at any given time. But Harry found himself surprisingly curious.

“What did you fight about?” he asked, with genuine curiosity and honest lack of tact.

Malfoy looked at him for a moment with a calculating look - probably coming up with the most accurate way to tell Harry where to stuff it, Harry thought as he realised how inappropriate his question must have been. But then, to his surprise, Malfoy just shrugged again.

“You, actually.”

“Me?”

“She believes the Daily Prophet - you know, all that stuff about you going mad with all the curses you were hit with. That’s basically what she said when she told me how you quit over the... you know. Disbanding Slytherin House. Kicking out people.”

“It wasn’t just about that,” Harry said uncomfortably. It was bad enough that everyone kept on saying he had become the champion of Slytherin House. He didn’t need Malfoy to think that too.

“Don’t worry, Potter. I don’t think you’re my best friend all of a sudden. Or that you’ve embraced your inner Slytherin.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Malfoy, but I’m sort of hoping I don’t _have_ an inner Slytherin.”

Malfoy was taken aback, but only for a second. Then, the first real smile he had seen on his face appeared.

“Good,” he said decidedly. “I don’t think we’d want you, anyway.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out,” Harry said without thinking, and the awkward silence descended on them again.

They sat like that, drinking their tea in silence, for long minutes that seemed like forever, and Harry kept on thinking what could he possibly say - not to offend Malfoy, because for the first time since they met, all those years ago at Diagon Alley, he didn’t want to; not to bring up Malfoy’s family, because it was obvious from his expression earlier that it was a sensitive subject; not to bring up Azkaban, or ask about Pansy, or talk about - anything, really. There was nothing Harry could think of that the two had in common, except, perhaps, Quidditch. Quidditch and a lot of bad memories.

“Did you see the game against Scotland?” he asked at last, fishing for any conversation subject to break the silence.

“No,” was Malfoy’s short reply. Harry went back to his tea.

“You asked me - do you remember? Why I didn’t turn you in.”

Harry lifted his head in surprise, staring at Malfoy. He never really expected an answer to that question.

“You weren’t a coward,” he said gently.

“But I was afraid,” Malfoy said into his tea. “I don’t know what I was afraid of more. You escaping, or you not escaping.”

Harry said nothing, not daring to interrupt.

“When I was a kid, Father always talked about how great it could have been had the Dark Lord succeeded. For us, you know. How the Malfoy family had a place in the wizarding society. But even he didn’t, I mean, he didn’t think, when _he_ was in our house, all that time, it was like...” Malfoy’s voice trailed. “Well, it really was a new world order,” he finished dryly.

“Winning wasn’t what you’d thought it’d be,” Harry said gently.

Malfoy looked at Harry defiantly, as if angry at the tone of his voice, at the _understanding_. “From the sound of it, it isn’t what you’d thought it’d be, either.”

“No,” Harry agreed, “it isn’t.” Who’d have thought? Maybe they had more in common than he realised.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Malfoy confessed suddenly, quietly. “It was the Dementors, y’know, in... _there_. I kept on going back to when we thought he’ll kill us all, and when he killed that teacher, and when he heard...” he became silent.

“Dementors tend to do that,” Harry said, gently still. He hadn’t forgotten all the grief Malfoy had given him in the past, because of his sensitivity to Dementors. But he didn’t feel like gloating, didn’t feel any joy that now pampered, spoilt Draco Malfoy had seen enough horrors to feel the Dementors’ real sting.

It seemed the same thought had crossed Malfoy’s mind. For just the shortest of moments, something like regret passed through his eyes, as he looked at Harry. He probably was thinking about it, too, about teasing Harry and laughing at him after he had fainted.

He opened his mouth - perhaps to utter an apology - but closed it down again. Harry didn’t mind. He never expected an apology from Draco Malfoy for seven years of mutual hatred, and would have probably dropped out of his chair in surprise had he received one, even from this new Draco Malfoy, the one who knew fear and pain and humility. And he didn’t want an apology. Not from Malfoy.

“But it doesn’t stop. I thought it would stop. I thought I would be out of there and wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. That’s the only thing that kept me going through all that time months, you know? Knowing that it will be over. But it isn’t.” He looked at Harry, his eyes almost begging him an answer, and Harry lowered his own eyes, he couldn’t bare to see that expression, not even on Malfoy’s face. “Does it ever go away?” he whispered his plea.

Harry considered for a moment. It would be a lie to say ‘yes’, even though he wanted to lie, if only to see Malfoy regaining his normal haughty demeanour. Seeing Malfoy pleading with him left him unsettled, more than he ever thought he’d be. But he couldn’t say yes. Not when the forest still haunted him in his nightmares.

“It gets better,” he said at last.

Draco nodded. “I guess that’s the best I can hope for,” he said, disappointment in his voice - and perhaps also fear. He got up, and Harry did the same. And then, as if the evening hadn’t offered enough surprises until then, he did something Harry had never thought would happen. He offered Harry his hand.

Harry hesitated. Draco Malfoy had obviously changed, not just in his tenure in Azkaban, but during the two previous years, when he learned the reality of Lord Voldemort. But Harry couldn’t forget the bullying, the lies, the names - everything that Draco Malfoy had done in the five years before. Testifying on that change was one thing. Accepting Malfoy was another.

Malfoy noticed his hesitation. His face grew darker, then resigned, and he pulled his hand back. There was silence between them for a moment, as Harry kept on looking at the empty space where Malfoy’s hand had been a moment ago.

So it was then, of course, that the door opened to reveal Kingsley Shacklebolt and Rita Skeeter.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Minister,” Rita said in her sweetest voice, “but aren’t secret business meetings with convicted Death Eaters an imprisonable offence these days? Or is this pleasure?” she flashed a smile at Harry, who didn’t respond in kind.

“What I do in my free time is my own business, Rita,” Harry said, trying to remain as civil as possible. Inside, he was reeling. What was Rita Skeeter even doing there?

“Not if it’s against the law, Potter, it isn’t. You wouldn’t want it published that the Ministry is turning a blind eye when Harry Potter breaks the law, now, would you?”

“I was merely catching up with a classmate,” Harry snapped.

“Yes,” she said, all hint of pleasantness gone from her voice as well. “I remember the two of you have always been such good friends.”

“Excuse me, but what are you doing in our house, exactly?” Ginny showed up behind them, together with Molly and Arthur. Her eyes were narrowed at Rita Skeeter, her voice cold and angry.

“Oh, young Ms Weasley!” Rita said in her sweetest voice. “I’ve been wanting to ask you to do an interview for just ages now! My readers are just fascinated by you. Did you know it’s rumoured you led the rebellion at Hogwarts last year? And of course,” she laughed, “your relationship with young Mr Potter here is the subject of interest for so many people. Are you afraid of him? Has he had any angry outbursts? Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“Why is she here?” Ginny turned to Kingsley, ignoring Rita and her words.

It was one of those moments that made Harry appreciate Ginny all the more. As much as he told himself he didn’t care what Rita was writing or what people were thinking, her cold words stung him. How dare she - ? he wanted to scream. But Ginny took it without batting an eyelid, just writing Rita off completely. I love you, he wanted to tell her at that moment - but of course, he couldn’t, not in the present company.

“She’s writing a piece about me,” Kingsley said apologetically. “We gave her clearance to follow me around for a bit.”

“Well, I don’t think Mum and Dad gave her clearance to come here, did they?”

“We most certainly didn’t,” said Molly Weasley coldly, looking just as angry as her daughter.

“Well,” Rita gave them all another smile, “I can tell you wish to have this meeting along. No matter. I think I’ve got some interesting news for tomorrow’s newspaper. Minister, Mr Potter, _Mr Malfoy_ ,” she said, emphasising Malfoy’s name, and completely ignoring Ginny and the rest of the Weasleys, she walked out.

“I think I should leave, too,” Malfoy muttered.

“Yes, I think you’ve done enough damage,” Arthur snapped at him.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what surprised him more - those words, coming out of Arthur Weasley’s mouth, who was always so kind and pleasant and quiet - and who had backed Harry up often enough on these matters. Or, perhaps, at the way Malfoy visibly shrunk at the words.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he told Malfoy shortly, trying to soften the blow.

“It won’t be necessary, Potter,” Malfoy said, sounding like his old self once again, and showed himself out.

“Good riddance,” Arthur muttered.

“Kingsley, would you like some cake?” Molly offered, trying to diffuse the tension that spread in the room.

“No, I’m sorry, Molly, I’m on a somewhat official business here. Harry - could I have a word?”

Harry tensed. “Forgive me, Minister - “ he said, perhaps putting too much emphasis on Kingsley’s title - “but what is this about?”

“Let’s talk, Harry.”

“They can stay,” Harry said quickly, noticing the Weasleys starting to edge towards the door, and Arthur, in particular, looking at him gravely. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

Kingsley visibly tensed. “Actually, I’d rather it’d be just the two of us, Harry.” He looked around at the Weasleys. “Well, Arthur should stay, but let’s not have too much of that, Harry.”

Harry had no problem reading Kingsley’s expression - whatever it was that he came here to do, he was unhappy about it. This was going to be an unpleasant conversation no matter who was going to be present, Harry realised, and despite his disagreement with the Ministry, his affection to Kingsley did not allow him to say no. It didn’t take long before everyone left, but when the room was clear of all but Harry, Arthur, and Kingsley, he just sat there and sat nothing.

Probably thinking how to begin, Harry thought, and spared Kingsley from further uncertainty.

“What’s this all about, Kingsley? Whenever the Minister for Magic has come to look for me in person in the past, it was bad news. So don’t take it the wrong way, but... what is it this time?”

“I came to ask whether you will rejoin the Auror Office.”

“No.” He didn’t even think about it, didn’t make a pretence of surprise or consideration. He didn’t have to.

“Look, Harry. This is more complicated than you realise. As long as you’re a part of the Auror Office and under my jurisdiction, I can protect you.”

Harry smiled, a smile without mirth. “Come on, Kingsley, I defeated Voldemort barely six months ago. I think that’s going to protect me for a while now.” But something in Kingsley’s expression alarmed even him. “No?”

“They’re passing new legislation in the Ministry when we’re back from the holidays. I tried to block it, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to have much of a success. It’s got a lot to do with that interview you gave to Rita Skeeter. Just like I warned you.”

“I take it the committee isn’t at the top of the Ministry’s priorities anymore?” Harry said, and was unsurprised to hear from Kingsley that its first meeting had been set - to July. “So killing Death Eaters isn’t the problem anymore, only pointing out that this has happened? I wonder what would have happened if I also told Rita about Seamus’s medal.”

“You heard about that?” Kingsley asked, dismayed.

“Of course I did. And I’m having a bit of a hard time figuring out why you want me to re-join the Ministry when things are just becoming worse and worse. Why did you decorate him for killing Death Eaters he didn’t even want to kill?”

“Because the Auror Office can’t afford admitting mistakes now,” it was Arthur who answered.

“People are scared, Harry,” Kingsley said. “The only thing they still trust is the Auror Office. If they knew how many near misses we’ve had, how many accidents we’ve had... there would be chaos. You think the Ministry will hold if people knew the truth?”

“I’m sorry, Kingsley, but that just sounds a bit too much like what Fudge and Scrimgeour did to Stan Shunpike to my liking.”

Kingsley looked at Harry for a long moment. “This isn’t about the Ministry anymore, Harry. This is about you.” He spoke slowly now, carefully measuring his words. “Will Jones already wanted to do it after the first one, after you’ve given Rita Skeeter the information about how... _we_ tortured Carrow, even before his murder was published,” Kingsley continued. “I managed to block him then, but that last interview gave him just the support he needed for this law. Information about Ministry operations and tactics has now been reclassified. To give it to the press without authorisation can get you tried in front of a select group from within the Wizengamot, chosen by the Ministry, and they can get you imprisoned.”

“But I haven’t even given her the whole truth the last time!” Harry protested. “All she heard from me is that there was a lie involved - no one even mentioned Savage or Robards yet!”

“That was all that was needed. And don’t think they’ll repeat the mistakes Fudge made with your hearing a couple of years ago. The kind of trial they’re planning won’t be public, won’t be full of people who support you, and they won’t need to prove you know anything before putting you there, either.”

“Or give too much proof, I take it,” Harry said darkly and took Kingsley’s silence as confirmation. He considered this for a moment. “How is rejoining the Ministry going to protect me?”

Kingsley looked uncomfortable. “To be quite honest with you, the idea is that you’ll be too busy with Auror training to do anything else.”

“Like being unavailable to comment about things?!” Harry asked in disbelief.

“That’s the only acceptable compromise I’ve managed to get out of Will Jones. They’re not going to suffer your criticism for long, Harry. You’re not just a random wizard who doesn’t like a random new policy. You’re Harry Potter. Your word means too much for the Ministry to allow you to speak against it. And you’re criticising the one thing the Ministry managed to get wide-spread support for.

“The bottom line, Harry, is that they practically gave me an ultimatum. Either I put a stop to this, or they will. And trust me, this is a threat Will Jones intends to keep.”

Harry went over Kingsley’s words. He had no doubt Will Jones really wanted him to remain silent - especially considering their latest incidents, incidents such as Seamus’s mistake. The Death Eater at the centre of that incident had been the same one who was responsible for the death of Jones’s wife - of course he would not let go of it.

“How d’you mean, ‘the only acceptable compromise’?” he asked distracted, mainly trying to buy some more time, or some more options. “What was the unacceptable compromise?”

“The hospital.”

“No.”

“That’s what I told him. I knew you’d feel this way. Even though he might not be completely wrong - don’t get me wrong, Harry,” Kingsley said without pausing for breath, drowning any noise Harry started making in protest of this last sentence, “I find these leaks of the research being done despicable, just as much as you. But the research is genuine. There really is a reason to be worried about the effect of Unforgivable Curses.”

“And you have a lot of subjects to test that hypothesis on, do you?” Harry asked sarcastically.

“No, it isn’t done on the victims. You know as well as I do that this path is useless, as do the wizards who are in charge of the research. The research is done on the origin of the curses. The Department of Mysteries is quite busy these days. And it doesn’t look encouraging.”

“How far are they?”

Arthur looked sharply at Harry to the sound of that question, but Kingsley didn’t flinch.

“Far from any conclusive results,” he answered truthfully.

“And would they be able to recognise this damage in a living person?”

“No.”

“Or treat a person they suspect is affected?”

“No.”

“In other words, there’s a theoretical possibility something is wrong with me, but no one can know for sure whether this possibility is only theoretical or if it’s actually happening, how to recognise it, or how to treat it,” Harry said, trying to maintain as calm a voice as possible.

“That sounds about right,” Kingsley agreed.

“And still they want me to hospitalised myself.”

“Which is why this is the _unacceptable_ compromise. I feel the same way about this.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.

“Don’t be so quick to thank me, Harry. Calling you the Great Hero of Hogwarts and declaring you as suffering from war-related damage would have been the easy solution. The Ministry loves this solution. They find it... elegant. If the Ministry’s research were anywhere close to practical, I would have insisted on that. You would have been given a nice pension by the Ministry and left alone. Whatever you said, they’d just talk about your great sacrifice and leave it to people like Rita Skeeter to fill in the blanks. But since this is not an option... You won’t return to the Auror Office?”

“Will the Auror Office change its policy? Are you going to stop going after innocent people? Are you going to make sure criminals are incarcerated and interrogated legally, rather than tortured and killed?”

“We do our best not to go after innocent people already, Harry.” Kingsley had ignored the second half of his question.

Harry looked at him sharply and said nothing. Eventually, Kingsley sighed. “No, Harry, there’s little chance the policies of the Ministry and the Auror Office will change any time soon.”

“Then I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.”

Kingsley got up then from his chair. “Well,” he said, “I tried.”

“And I appreciate it.”

“I guess I better be going now. But Harry - be careful, please.”

Harry said his goodbyes as pleasantly as possible, but didn’t join Arthur as he went to show the Minister to the door. Instead, he remained seated in his chair, in front of the table, staring at nothing in particular. For the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t only unsure about what he had to do, but unsure about what he wanted to do, too.

He lifted his head when the door opened again, not a minute after Kingsley left the room. It was Ron. He could see from his expression that Ron had heard all of the conversation that had transpired in the kitchen - just as he could see that Ron wanted to hide that fact. He knew Ron long enough to recognise the expression - and not to mind it at all.

“Extendable ears?” he asked in a pleasant tone.

“What?” Ron looked guilty as he tried to sit as casually as possible next to Harry.

“Did you listen with the extendable ears? Or just stood beyond the door? I hope it was the ears, I’ll be honest. Much more comfortable.”

“Oh, um,” the tips of Ron’s ears turned bright red, “yeah, extendable ears. There were too many of us to listen through the door.”

Harry chuckled.

“We didn’t mean to listen in - well, we did,” Ron amended hurriedly. “But - I mean - it’s not like, if we knew what he was going to say, you know, we wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, you would,” Harry chuckled again, and Ron breathed in relief, seeing that Harry wasn’t angry. “I don’t mind,” Harry added, just in case it wasn’t obvious. “I wouldn’t have minded if you’d have been here.”

“Thanks,” Ron mumbled.

“It was easier in the war,” Harry said aloud what he hadn’t even dared thinking to himself, not in words. “We knew what we had to do.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t have any clue how to do it,” Ron pointed out wisely.

“I know. But there was a purpose, even when we weren’t sure how to get there.”

“Maybe you should go back to the Ministry. Maybe that’s the right thing to do.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

“But you don’t know,” Ron pointed out.

“No,” Harry agreed. “I don’t.” He thought about it for a moment, and the memory of his first conversation of the evening came back to his mind with the vivid image of Draco Malfoy’s pale face. “You think maybe that’s how Malfoy felt last year? Stuck between two really bad options and not knowing which one to choose?” he mused.

“Harry, to be honest with you, I don’t give a damn what Malfoy was feeling, or thinking, or wanting. I don’t give a damn about Malfoy, period.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly.

“We’re out of school, we don’t have to suffer him anymore, we don’t have to deal with him anymore. There were the days you’d have jumped on the opportunity to be rid of Malfoy.”

“I know. I did. I do. Just not like this.”

“Well, that’s the only way there is to it. Now come on, I have to go back to Manchester tomorrow. Let’s have some fun before that, shall we?”

But Harry couldn’t forget his conversation with Malfoy, just like he couldn’t forget the one he had with Kingsley. He couldn’t sleep at all through that night. Whenever he dozed off, Kingsley’s words came back to him. Deep inside, he didn’t believe he would ever be in danger. There was some arrogance in it, he knew - after all, he didn’t believe he would ever be in danger because he was the Famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the Hero of Hogwarts - etc etc etc. All those names they called him those first days of summer, when they all sat in ceremonies and funerals and listened to people going on and on about the war. But when tiredness overtook him, and he almost fell asleep, doubt came to him and kept him awake. What if Kingsley was right? And when it was so late it was almost morning, and the chill and darkness engulfed him but he tried hard to wrap himself in the blanket and fall asleep, he started asking himself what if they were all right and all he believed only showed that something was terribly wrong with him.

It seemed like forever before Molly woke them up, and then they were in a flurry of goodbyes - Ron going back to his training, Hermione and Ginny back to Hogwarts. Harry felt strangely empty, and much more alone than he felt before.

He didn’t feel any better when he came to open the shop together with George. The holidays were over, and although George didn’t expect too many people - or any, if he were to believe George’s stories of the complete boredom he and Fred had suffered through the year before. The story still cheered him up - it wasn’t full of the awkward silences and pained expressions that had become a part of the routine whenever Fred’s name came up. When George spoke of Fred, it was as if his twin was still alive - he talked about him with so much enthusiasm. And so they spent the morning just the two of them, sitting with cups of coffee Harry brought from a Muggle café next to Diagon Alley, and George talked about the days after Christmas the year before.

“Well, obviously, no one even dreamt of coming here last year at this time, you know? We had to ask the staff not to come that week, it was that empty. Fred ended up inventing those stupid self-digging shovels. We kept talking all through Christmas last year how we needed a quick way out, in case Voldemort or his buddies came visiting, right? ‘Cause you couldn’t Apparate in and our of Diagon Alley, obviously. And I don’t even remember how the idea of escape tunnels came up - must have been Dad with the Muggle stuff he reads. We all laughed at him, but the idea kinda stuck. So when we were sitting here, Fred inventing the self-digging shovels.”

“And what did you do with them?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Set them loose, of course!” George burst out laughing. “Well, not exactly. We tested them by setting them in the direction of Ollivander, seeing as it was empty and all, so there was no risk of us scaring off some innocent shopkeeper - or worse, finding ourselves in a Death Eater shop. So they dig, and everything’s alright, and we follow in the tunnel, and we get to Ollivander’s and it’s all great - and then we realise we have no idea where the shovels were. They just kept on digging.”

“Digging where?”

“No clue! We never found out!”

“I think we should go to Ollivander’s and find out,” Harry joined in with George’s laughter. But he could see from the eagerness in George’s eyes that he was not kidding - George really wanted to see those tunnels. Why not, really? It’s not like they had any costumers. And Harry knew he could use the distraction.

“Do you know where the entry is?” Harry asked George, who pointed at the back room. There, behind shelves and shelves of boxes, there was a big round hole, just big enough for a person.

“Lumos,” Harry muttered, and George did the same next to him. They entered the tunnel. It had an odd smell - sweet, almost of something rotting.

“Lovely smell,” Harry commented, and George said, almost apologetically, “It’s a byproduct of the shovels. Can’t be helped. We tried.”

It wasn’t far to Ollivander’s, whose shop was just next door to the Weasleys’. Within five minutes, they could hear the radio on the other side of the wall - and Percy singing to himself along with Celestina Warback! They looked at each other in amusement mixed with just a little bit of glee.

“So,” Harry whispered, trying to keep his tone as casual as possible, “do you think we could go to Ollivander’s through here?”

“You know, Harry,” George whispered back, his voice just as casual, “I think we could!”

The self-digging shovels had done a wonderful job, despite the unfortunate smell. The whole wall of Ollivander’s was missing, and old dusty boxes were stacked one upon the other in front of them. All they had to do was remove them, one box at a time, or all together using magic. George waved his wand - the boxes cleared, and gave them a clear passage into Ollivander’s.

Right in front of them, Percy was sitting, drinking his morning coffee and occasionally joining Celestina. “The Hippogriff who loved - argh!” he yelped, as he caught the faces of his brother and Harry peering at him from between the boxes. A second shout followed closely - he had spilled most of his coffee on his robes.

“What are you doing here?!” he demanded of the two.

“Percy! What’s wrong?” Ollivander rushed into the room, leaning on a small walking stick, his face white with fear and lined with age. Harry felt a pang of guilt - he had heard from Percy that Mr Ollivander had never quite recovered from his imprisonment at Malfoy Manor. He hadn’t seen the old wandmaker for a while - and now that he did, he could see that he did not look at all better than on that day Harry had rescued him from that cellar. They nearly caused the old man a heart attack, he thought guiltily, even if he never quite liked him.

“Mr Potter! Mr Weasley!” Ollivander was now clutching his heart, and sitting down. “What on Earth are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Ollivander, we weren’t quite thinking - there’s this tunnel you see - “ they started to awkwardly explain what they were doing there.

It was clear after a while that Ollivander was not listening. He settled for saying ‘please don’t do that again’, but didn’t even bother scolding them properly before going back to the front room.

“That was completely irresponsible, George,” Percy said sternly. “I thought you have out-grown such nonsense. And Harry! You, after everything, I thought would have more common sense.”

“You know, Percy,” Harry said, slightly annoyed, “ _after everything_ , I’m quite happy to have some fun every once in a while.”

“That - “ Percy said indignantly - “is _not_ fun!”

“Oh, I don’t know, Perce. It was quite fun to see you spill your coffee all over your robes,” George smirked. Percy huffed at him, which only served to make his smile bigger. Harry looked at the two of them, smiling.

His smiled was wiped from his face when he registered the words coming from the radio. They were discussing this morning’s _Daily Prophet_ \- specifically, Rita Skeeter’s story about him.

“‘... We’ve known for a while that Potter’s been a bit odd when it comes to Death Eaters, but if Rita’s report is correct, this brings it to a whole new level. Meeting with a convicted Death Eater - that kinda makes you wonder what’s going on in his head, doesn’t it, Mike?’

‘Well, Godfrey, some might argue that Rita Skeeter’s piece from two months ago was all the indication of what’s going on in Potter’s mind - or, at least, his soul. Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate Harry Potter just like the next wizard - ‘

‘ - Of course you do, we all do - ‘

‘Exactly, but we can’t allow that soft spot for Harry to turn us blind to some worrying tendencies he’s been exhibiting. Anyway, for the next news, what do you think about the new legislation by the Ministry?’

‘Well, Mike, I think it’s about time! In order for our Ministry to work properly, its members should be allowed to make their own decisions without fear of backlash from the public! If - ‘

At that point, Percy turned off the radio angrily.

“Gits,” George said to Harry. “Don’t pay attention to them and what they’re saying about you. I mean, Death Eaters is one thing, but going after you like that, that’s completely uncalled for.”

“Well, Rita Skeeter needs to sell some papers,” Harry said, trying to feign light-heartedness. He had hoped there would be no further mentions of Rita Skeeter’s little scoop about his scar and the fragment of Voldemort’s soul, but of course, this was not the case. And of course, he thought bitterly, this would be brought up whenever someone objected to his actions, which seemed to be all the time now. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like remaining at the back room at Ollivander’s any longer.

“I guess we better go back,” he told George briefly, and started to go back through the tunnel.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Percy said sternly. “Don’t make it a habit to go through this tunnel. You’ll be going through the front door, like normal people!”

“You’re no fun at all, Perce,” George complained, but he flicked his wand, returning the boxes back to their original place, and left the room.

“Harry,” Percy called after Harry. Harry stopped and waited. “Be careful,” he repeated Kingsley’s advice from the night before. Harry left the room without another word.

He tried to be careful - he really did. Arthur had warned him as well at dinner the next day. It was harder than he thought. He didn’t read the papers at work anymore - which wasn’t a problem, as George was happy not to let another copy of the Daily Prophet into the shop, ever again. But he read them every night at Grimmauld Place, growing angrier and angrier with the quotes from Ministry officials who agreed to be mentioned by name, from Ministry ‘sources’ who refused to be identified, and with stories about new laws, passed by the Ministry all the time.

They passed laws dictating the curriculum of Hogwarts, demanding the war would already be taught at History of Magic classes, even though everyone knew about it. Harry had a moment’s smile at the thought of Professor Binns teaching something that had happened after his death, but that was quickly gone. He had less to smile about when a law was passed that gave the Aurors much more authority and options while interrogating prisoners; and the Ministry gave itself much more legal tools to track down “people suspected of suspicious activities”, he felt he had had enough.

He didn’t quite mean to give an interview to the Prophet, slamming more or less anything Kingsley’s regime had done in the past several months. In fact, his intention was to visit Kingsley again, rather than go to the paper about it. He had little love to the _Prophet_ , even when its correspondent was not Rita Skeeter, and despite the fact he himself had found her useful from time to time; and unlike Fudge or Scrimgeour, he knew Kingsley would listen. In fact, he left work a little early that day, with the full purpose of getting to the Ministry before Kingsley left.

And then the attack occurred.

It wasn’t goblins this time. It wasn’t a random attack. There had been various Death Eater attacks in the past couple of weeks - perfectly timed with the Ministry’s new legislation, giving the Ministry all the fuel it needed to silence any criticism that might have arisen otherwise. Those Death Eater attacks seemed random: a small village there, an incident in a lonely field here, it looked as if the Death Eaters still at large were mainly trying to make a point, show to the wizarding world that they were still around, still deadly. Ron’s owl had mentioned Selwyn again - that was the Ministry’s best guess, Selwyn goading Kingsley, and particularly Will Jones, taunting them with as much chaos and death as he could muster without being caught.

But the attack in Diagon Alley was not random. They were three Death Eaters - he didn’t recognise them, not at first, although later he felt they looked familiar. They walked with determined faces towards Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, so determined that one of them brushed Harry as he left, not registering who he was. He wasn’t quite sure what made him stop for a moment - perhaps he did recognise them, after all. The three of them turned around at the same time, just at the moment he, too, realised something was wrong. Their moment of hesitation saved his life - he had just enough time to jump into Ollivander’s, as the green flashes of light shook the shop.

“Stupify!” he shouted at the top of his voice, taking cover behind Ollivander’s door and aiming his wand at their general direction, not daring to look any further at their location for fear they would find him first. “Expelliarmus!”

More green flashes shattered next to him, the last one missing him by inches.

It created a commotion, of course. Diagon Alley was full of people at that moment, and at the next shop George and Angelina were already running outside, sending their own curses at the Death Eaters. They weren’t alone - half of Diagon Alley came to fight the Death Eaters, the other half hiding behind the stone walls. One was down - two down - and then the third, still up, grabbed his friends and turned on the spot.

Harry could hear the shouts outside. “Where are they? Where did they go? Did they Disapparate? Where are they?” and only then allowed himself to leave the cover of Ollivander’s door. His heart was pounding at what felt like 300,000 pulses a second, his head was dizzy, and he was breathing heavily. The Death Eater attacks had worried him, of course, just as they worried any other wizard. And in his short time in Auror training, he had faced some of them - but they were never _personal_. They were never after him, specifically.

He remembered where they were going before they noticed him. He had no doubt he was their intended target. There was nothing else they could look for in George’s shop. Just him. His period of grace was over. Somehow, he never imagined this would be the case.

Hermione’s words from all those months ago came back to him. It was supposed to be over. By all rights, it should already have been over. Will this war never end?

“Harry!” George shouted. “Blimey, you’re white as a ghost! Are you alright? Did they get you?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Sit down, wait, I’ll go get you some water, sit there,” George guided him towards a bench somewhere in the street. “Just wait here!”

Harry sat, grateful. His legs were shaking. It wasn’t the fear - he’d seen worse, he’d faced worse, what were three pathetic Death Eaters, who were never considered much even between their friends, and whose best achievement had been not being caught by the Ministry when their Master fell - what were they, comparing to Lord Voldemort himself? No, it wasn’t the fear. It was the surprise.

“Harry,” someone called him. He didn’t recognise the wizard. “Brian Kirkpatrick, the Daily Prophet. I just saw this - how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled again, hoping this Brian Kirkpatrick, whoever he was, would leave him alone.

“I just wanted to ask you, do you have any comment on this event? It’s pretty obvious they were going after you!”

“No, nothing. I’m fine, that’s all really.”

“Would you reconsider your position now on Death Eaters?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head to the reporter. His breath, that had been slowly returning to normal, became heavy again.

“What?” he demanded.

“Well, you’ve been pretty critical in the past about the Ministry’s policy towards Death Eaters, and I thought - “

“I haven’t been critical about their policy towards Death Eaters. I’ve been critical about their policy towards _Slytherins_. And as long as you’ve mentioned their policies towards Death Eaters...” he started, and finished about fifteen minutes later.

It was a mistake, of course. He knew it even without seeing Kirkpatrick’s smug expression. He wasn’t even quite sure what he talked about. He had the vague impression he had blamed the Ministry for the current situation with the Death Eaters at large. He was positive he had claimed that their new measures were mostly a distraction from what was going on. And he knew that whatever he did say, he wouldn’t have said if he had thought five more seconds about it.

He knew he should have probably tried to conduct some damage control now; that he probably needed to unsay some of the things he said. But he didn’t, he just glared at the reporter, daring him to say anything more.

“Well,” the reporter said, “thank you, Harry. I do believe I just have the next headline.”

Harry just kept on glaring until he disappeared from view.

“That was stupid,” someone said behind him - George, of course, still holding his forgotten glass of water. He was leaning on the wall of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, studying Harry.

“I know,” Harry said shortly.

“I’m not saying I don’t agree with some of the stuff you said. Like that bit about the Ministry focusing on Slytherins instead of Death Eaters, that was pretty spot on.”

“Thanks.”

“But on the whole, Harry, that had to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen you do - and mind you, I think you and Ron and Hermione did some really stupid stuff at school.”

Harry didn’t answer. He knew George was right.

But then, surprisingly, George gave him a wide, approving smile. “What’s life without some stupidity, eh? Just boring, really!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Wait here,” George said, “I’ll grab my coat. We’ll go get a drink, I don’t reckon water will help you now.”

Harry’s smile widened. He knew there was a reason he always liked the Weasley twins.

**-X-**

It was nearing midnight. Harry had sat with George and Angelina in the Leaky Cauldron until Tom threatened to throw them out, and then they said their goodbyes, George and Angelina going back to the small flat above the shop, and Harry continuing back to Grimmauld Place. He had learned to like the place in an odd way in the past couple of months. It wasn’t home - it could never be home, not when it still bore the signs of being occupied by the Black family, and never after Sirius’s death. But it was comfortable, and at the moment, that was all Harry wanted.

He fumbled through the entrance and into the dark corridor. He was slightly too drunk, he knew, but after what he’d been through that day, he felt he had every right to be. Besides, he only had, what, three firewhiskeys? He knew what Ron would say - pathetic. His head should definitely not be as dizzy as it was. But there it was, another riddle solved.

“The great Harry Potter can’t really drink,” he announced to the dark corridor. The corridor failed to answer, so he continued upstairs, to the bathroom and bedroom. A short shower, and he was dressed in his pyjamas and brushing his teeth. “You missed a spot,” the mirror said, as it often did, and he ignored it, as he often did. Sometimes he threw a sarcastic comment, or told it it was just a mirror, but right now all he wanted to do was go to sleep.

“Right there, on your upper teeth,” the mirror commented again.

“Shut up,” he told it.

And then - was it a noise downstairs? He stopped all movement, the brush tucked into his mouth.

“A little bit upper,” the mirror chose the worst time to comment.

“Shut up!” he hissed urgently. There it was again - noise from below. Someone was in the house. He could hear them moving chairs, then climbing up the stairs, the ancient wood creaking under their footsteps - whoever they were. He spat the toothpaste and started tiptoeing outside of the bathroom to get a closer look - when a bright light appeared, turning into a familiar shape. A lynx. Kingsley’s Patronus.

The lynx opened its mouth and said one word in Kingsley’s deep voice before disappearing.

“Run.”


	13. On the Run

Bedroom. Cloak. Wand. Turn on the spot.

He wasn’t quite sure who they were, the people downstairs. But they must have had some connection to the Ministry, his mind raced, or Kingsley would not be the one warning him from them. Why it was that the Minister for Magic chose to warn him rather than stop them in whatever it was they were doing, he couldn’t yet begin to speculate.

He’ll worry about that later.

His first priority, however, was to get away. So he Apparated to the place that had become home in the past six months - the Burrow. It was a few seconds of nauseating travel, and he was at the gate of that wonderful house. From this gate, and gazing at the house that was full of bright light and warm fire, his hurried departure from Grimmauld Place felt ridiculous. He didn’t even stop to get dressed, and now he was standing in the muddy snow barefoot and in his pyjamas. What a ridiculous way to appear at the Weasleys’ doorstep. He also berated himself for panicking so quickly at Kingsley’s message - must have been the whiskey, he thought. He still believed they must have been Ministry employees - which meant there was nothing they could do to him, was there? Granted, breaking into his house was at least a breach of protocol, if not downright illegal, but what else were they going to? If anything, this automatic response was a good indication that he still couldn’t put the war behind him. That would be something he’d have to unlearn, he thought to himself as he walked down the path.

He continued walking towards the Burrow, but at the same time considered returning to Grimmauld Place. It would save him a lot of awkward questions, like what was he doing there in the middle of the night in his pyjamas. He wondered how well the Weasleys would react to a joke about sleep-Apparating. Probably not too well, he smiled to himself. But the warm, inviting windows of the Burrow called him. At least, they called him until he realised that at that hour, none of the Weasleys should be awake.

Why were all the rooms lit? Why was there movement inside the house? And why did Mr Weasley just open the door, at half past midnight?

“I still don’t think this is necessary,” Harry could hear Arthur saying irritably to someone inside the house. “I will call you if he shows up. Why wouldn’t I?”

Harry froze, glad to have thrown his Invisibility Cloak on himself before leaving Grimmauld Place.

“Well, Mr Weasley, don’t take it the wrong way, but we have no reason to assume you will cooperate with us, rather than warn Mr Potter - or even hide him here.”

“You say it’s for his own good. Well, if Harry’s health is compromised obviously I would want to help him - “

“Ah, Mr Weasley, that’s just it. There’s no ‘if’. And until we’re sure you realise that, we can’t really trust your judgement.”

In the light pouring out from within the house, Harry could see Arthur’s face becoming redder. “Well, I am the head of - “

“I know who you are, Mr Weasley, and I wish no disrespect, to you or to Mr Potter. The sooner this sorry business is dealt with, the better. But I have my orders, and until they are countered, I will follow them. We won’t bother you at all, just keep a watchful eye here to make sure he doesn’t turn up.”

Harry’s heart sank, and he started retreating back towards the gate. A part of him rebelled - he was Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s biggest hero. So what if they knew he was there? What did they think they were going to do? Arrest him? On what charges? Why should he run, he thought for one wild moment, a split-second in which he seriously considered taking off his invisibility cloak and face this nameless bureaucrat right there and then. But then, sense came back to him. He would rather maintain his freedom, and try to understand what had happened and why, rather than make a point the rest of the wizarding world would probably never hear of and get arrested in the middle of the night like a thief or a murderer. He needed answers, first. He could always get himself arrested later. It didn’t seen like a terribly difficult task at the moment.

But before answers - or before getting arrested, he thought to himself dryly - he need to find somewhere to go. The Burrow was obviously out of the question, and he had every reason to believe Grimmauld Place was likewise watched. He walked back quietly through the path and outside the gate, trying to think of a place to crash. If they came to the Weasleys, they would probably show up at George and Angelina’s as well - and anyway, they lived in Diagon Alley. Not a good spot. Hogwarts would be likewise out of the question, he thought sadly as the image of the old school - and Ginny inside it - came to his mind. He needed a place no one would expect him, a place no one would guess. For a moment he toyed with the idea of appearing at Privet Drive, but only for a moment - that place he had left, never to return. He would not go back there, even if it weren’t very likely he’d be refused entrance, especially showing up at the middle of the night and in muddy pyjamas. He needed a place he would be accepted in.

A place like Andromeda Tonks’s house.

No one would think to seek him there, he knew. After all, she was a Slytherin. She had lost her Muggle-born husband to an unmarked graved in a god-forsaken forest somewhere. She had lost her daughter and son-in-law when they saved the wizarding world from Voldemort. But all everyone could remember was that she was the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy. It had frustrated him; it had angered him; it had made him want to shout at the entire Ministry. But now, it was going to work in his favour.

As soon as he Apparated to the small house, he knew he was right. The house was completely dark, completely silent. There were no late night visits from the Ministry there, no unexpected visitors - except for himself, of course. It was a bit of a shame there was no one around, a more sarcastic part of him thought as he climbed up the path. Harry Potter, barefoot and in striped pyjamas, knocking on the door of the descendant of one of the most infamous families that had ever existed in their world at the middle of the night.

It took a few minutes before he was heard, and a few more before Andromeda walked down the stairs, wrapped in a robe, and asked suspiciously without opening the door, “Who’s there?”

“Harry Potter,” he answered.

He could hear her pausing at the other side of the door. Was he wrong? Had the Ministry been there, after all? But then, he could hear her undoing the bolts, and she opened the door.

The small lamp shone past him - of course, he thought, the cloak! And quickly, he removed it. She jumped, but only for a second, then looked at him critically, from messy hair and toothpaste stains, to the muddy feet.

“Come in,” she said, and he followed.

She turned on the light when he entered - the house was spotless, almost shiny in its cleanliness. It made him feel all the more guilty - not only did he wake her up, he was also getting mud al over her shiny floor. He decided to stay at the entrance, rather than spread the mud into more rooms, but she just looked at him in confusion. Finally, and without a word, she aimed her wand at his feet. “ _Tergeo_ ,” she said the incantation softly, and the mud disappeared. Now Harry felt embarrassed even more - he should have remembered that spell. She must have sensed his embarrassment, as she smiled at him and gestured towards the living room, where a merry fire was already cackling in the fireplace.

“I’ll make some tea, shall I,” she said shortly, and he was left in the living room on his own.

‘Living room‘ was not the best title for that place. In fact, Harry felt it was as far away from the truth as possible. It was the first time he had been to Andromeda’s house since the funeral, and his embarrassment was growing and turning into guilt the more he looked at the room. He promised Mrs Tonks he wouldn’t abandon Andromeda, but the room was a stark reminder of his neglect - his, and everyone else’s.

It wasn’t a room Andromeda sat in often, that was obvious. There were copies of the Daily Prophet in a basket near the armchair, and they were at least three months old. The floors and chairs were completely clean and tidy, as if only cleaned yesterday, but the dust on the bookcase hinted that no one had taken out any book for at least the same amount of months.

The dust didn’t continue to the fireplace. The mantlepiece was so clean that it almost shone back at him in the soft light. And on it, a shrine: Tonks, when she was six or seven, her hair changing from purple to bubblegum pink while she was laughing; Ted Tonks, taking his daughter on his back, or jumping her up and down on his knee; The three of them - Tonks, Ted and Andromeda in a picnic, the later looking slightly displeased at the mess around them, Tonks chasing a cat around; Tonks, about his age, wearing proudly her Hogwarts robes for what must have been the last time; and finally - he picked up the photograph. Nymphadora Tonks, her bright white dress shining, but not enough to distract from her shining, happy face, and near her Remus Lupin, looking younger than he had ever seen him in life and wearing a suit - again, for the first time Harry had ever seen him.

“He was disappointed that day, that you couldn’t come,” Andromeda said quietly. Harry jumped - he didn’t realise that she was behind him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, not at all,” he said apologetically. He put the photograph back in its place, and turned to take the cup of hot tea from Andromeda’s hand. “Thanks,” he said, and sat down on one of the armchairs. Andromeda sat on another.

“They look so happy,” he said quietly.

“They were so happy,” she agreed.

“How are you and Teddy doing?” he asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around more, I’ve been meaning to...”

“It’s alright,” she said, still serious. “I understand.”

He nodded, and sipped his tea, looking for something else to say.

“So, Harry Potter, what are you doing here at this time of the night?”

“I... don’t quite know,” he answered honestly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know how you came to knock on my door at 1 a.m. wearing your pyjamas and covered in mud?”

“I had to leave Grimmauld Place in a hurry.”

“What happened?” she asked. “Death Eaters again?”

“No... I think this time it was the Ministry.”

Her face turned cold, and she took a long sip from her tea, as if trying to buy some time before starting to talk again. “I didn’t think they will come after you - I thought Kingsley had more sense than that.”

“Well,” he looked at her awkwardly, “I’m not completely sure what it was all about. But Kingsley was the one who warned me.”

She looked at him sharply. “They were at the Burrow, as well?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “You can stay here as long as you’d like, Harry. I don’t mind.” He could hear the words that were not being said - it would be nice to have some company.

“I’d love to,” he answered.

“Very well. I’ll go and arrange a bed for you.”

She turned to leave, but he called her again before she could get away. “Andromeda... how are you holding up?”

“About as well as anyone else, I’d imagine,” she said. He knew she couldn’t see him nodding, but it didn’t stop him anyway. It sounded about right.

He didn’t really sleep that night. Andromeda’s bed was comfortable, and the slight dizziness that had accompanied him all through that evening demanded he closed his eyes, but whenever he did that, he could see those three Death Eaters, turning around in unison. Except that they weren’t three faceless, nameless pawns now. One of them had the lumpy, leery face of Amycus Carrow, except that his eyes had that frightened expression fixed into them, that same expression he had last seen on him, the result of the Cruciatus curse. The second was Lucius Malfoy, not the way he looked the last time Harry had seen him, desperate and afraid, but as Harry remembered him at the height of his power and popularity, sneering at Harry from Voldemort’s side.

The third, of course, had the snake-like face of Lord Voldemort.

It changed a bit, whenever Harry closed his eyes. Once, it was his face as he aimed his wand at him, right before Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable; another time he had that hunger in him, the same terrible expression he had first seen on him, that night in the graveyard; and other times there was no expression at all, just his dead eyes, staring at nothing.

He gave up any attempt of sleep shortly before 4 a.m. It wasn’t doing him any good, anyway. He tiptoed out of his room, afraid he would wake up Andromeda, who deserved her sleep. For a moment, he slid into Teddy’s room. The boy was fast asleep, a smile on his face, his hair brown, but with streaks of green that Harry was sure would disappear by morning. He looked like Tonks, mostly. They same shape of the eyes, the same fingers, the same chin. But in his nose, he recognised Remus Lupin.

“I’m here now, Teddy, and you’ll be alright,” he whispered to the sleeping baby, who didn’t even stir. “Everything will be alright,” he whispered, more to himself than to Teddy.

He continued to look at him for a while longer, then stepped down back to the living room, pulled a book, and started to read.

That was how Andromeda had found him, four hours later, curled in front of the fire, deep into the book.

“I thought you would have preferred sleeping, after all of the excitement yesterday,” she said softly.

“I fancied reading,” he answered light-heartedly. Yesterday’s events seemed less daunting now, when the sun was almost up and he was warm and comfortable.

“What are you reading?”

“A history of Goblin revolts in the Middle Ages.”

“I’ve never figured you for a history buff,” she said, and he shrugged.

“I guess it was a latent interest. I only discovered it myself about four hours ago.”

She laughed softly. “Come, I’ll make us some breakfast.”

Over breakfast, Harry discovered Andromeda had quite the interest in the various and long goblin wars throughout history. Somehow, she managed to make that topic much more interesting than Professor Binns ever did. Andromeda laughed when he said as much, and suggested that perhaps it wasn’t Professor Binns who had been boring, but simply Harry who had been bored. He had to agree with her that now that he had actually known some goblins, and had known more about them, he naturally found them more interesting; but he still insisted that he would have been more likely to succeed in his History of Magic O.W.L.s had Professor Binns had any talent at teaching.

Well, that and not being subjected to visions by Voldemort, but that was besides the point.

Breakfast passed without any unexpected events. The only interruption had been a knock on the window, that made Harry jump - but it was only the owl, bringing the morning _Prophet_.

“No wanted posters?” Harry asked dryly, but was only half-joking.

“Nothing on the first page - oh,” Andromeda spread the paper for Harry to see. Apparently, the break-in to Grimmauld Place last night and the Ministry settling in at the Burrow had become an article claiming that he was ‘missing’.

“‘With fears growing for Potter’s health, the healers of St Mungo’s have requested to be notified if Potter is seen. He may be confused or disoriented... blah blah blah... As the entire wizarding world is worried for his general being.’ Of course they are.”

“Looks like you’re going to stay here for a while,” Andromeda said.

“Look, if it’s - “

“Nonsense.” She didn’t even wait for him to complete the sentence. “I’d love to have some company. Believe it or not, but 10-months-old babies don’t make the best company.”

It was the perfect place, he had to admit. No one seemed to have realised he was there - and if there was someone who was close enough to think of Andromeda’s house, they weren’t telling the Ministry. She wasn’t completely isolated - the house was located within a mainly Muggle village but there were few wizarding families around. However, as Andromeda was quick to point out, they weren’t on the best of terms and the house, with its large garden, was left on its own most of the time. She also had books and books, and Harry soon discovered he could spend as much of his time reading as Hermione. A lot of history - goblins, Hogwarts’ founders, Merlin’s era, the 20th century - everything was there.

He also spent plenty of time helping Andromeda with Teddy. He had started walking with unsure steps, and could soon be found at any weird corner of the house, at all possible hours. He spent quite a lot of his time chasing Teddy around - the boy seemed to take pleasure in hiding in the most unlikely places, and Harry was becoming more and more positive that he could already control the changes in his appearance, because whenever he chose a place to hide in, his hair would change its colour to match its surrounding.

The rest of the time, he would watch Andromeda cook, after his own initial disastrous attempts; work in the garden, to make sure the gnomes didn’t find their way through; dust all of the books in the living room, before he moved to the library; read Teddy a bedtime story every night; practice some of the difficult spells that could be found in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_ ; and go for long, quiet walks under his invisibility cloak.

It wasn’t all house chores and reading. He had learned an appreciation for Andromeda, an appreciation he already had on an intellectual level, but never in his heart until then. She was kind, and sweet, and didn’t let her grief destroy her, even when it was very visibly there, eating her from within. She would say something, then stop in pain, reminded of her husband, her daughter - even her sister. She never talked about Bellatrix, and he was grateful. For all his appreciation of her, he didn’t think he could hear good words spoken about Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the worst human beings he had ever met. Andromeda knew this, of course - she told him a lot of tales of Tonks when she was a kid, or about the short time she and Lupin had spent there, but never talked of Bellatrix or Narcissa.

He had to admit that it kept a wall between them, an invisible wall that couldn’t be breached. Her sisters, her upbringing, her life, they were all something he couldn’t quite connect to, and with that between them, he had to admit - at least to himself - that as much as he had grown to feel genuine affection for her, she was not the person he’d choose to be locked up with. That’s what it felt like - being locked up in her house, as he only allowed himself short visits to the nearby village, and even then, only under the invisibility cloak. He would have hated it at the best of times, but if he had any choice, he would have preferred to spend his time with Ron, with Hermione, with Ginny, with Neville, or with Luna. With Andromeda, there were some conversations here and there, but mainly silences and almost never laughter. He soon went back to books, cleaning, or playing with Teddy.

In short, Harry Potter was slowly but surely losing his mind with boredom.

And yet, when the cold and wet February morning came that forced him to go, he regretted having to leave.

He woke up to hear voices - loud voices. Andromeda’s voice. Shouting at someone. His first instinct was to jump to her defence. Was someone attacking her? Was she in trouble? Did someone come for Teddy? - and then he stopped to think, did someone come for him?

“And I told you, I will not have you invade my privacy and my house!” Andromeda shouted. It was uncharacteristic of her, to say the least. Andromeda had been one of the quietest people Harry had ever met. She didn’t shout when he broke plates in the kitchen, she didn’t shout when he forgot to put on the barrier that would stop Teddy from climbing up the stairs, and she didn’t shout when he forgot to de-gnome the garden for the third day running. He couldn’t remember ever hearing her shouting.

But she was shouting now, and by doing so, piqued Harry’s interest. He looked outside the window, to see who she was shouting at - and saw the Ministry robes and somewhat embarrassed demeanour on the small wizard next to her. They were right below his window, an odd place, considering the door was five feet away. She must have led the wizard there for some reason - and now, he realised why she was shouting. Andromeda wasn’t angry, nor did she lose control of herself. She was shouting in order to wake him up, the only signal she could give him to leave her house, as quickly as possible. Finally, someone in the Ministry realised that Harry Potter was Teddy Lupin’s godfather, and that Teddy Lupin was being raised by his grandmother, and now they came here, to check on that theory.

Harry jumped from the window and into the room. There was no time to lose. He collected his possessions, as little as they were. Most of the stuff in the room belonged to Andromeda - he didn’t get the chance to pick up anything from Grimmauld Place. Only his wand and his cloak, and they were now safely in his bag. He changed quickly from his pyjamas into the robes Andromeda had given him when he just got there - Ted Tonks’s. He’d had to give them back, when he got the chance.

A quick flick of his wand, and the room went back to look empty, abandoned, as if no one had been there for months. He even added a small layer of dust. He didn’t want the Ministry to give Andromeda a hard time for keeping him there, for not turning him in. And then, he threw the invisibility cloak on himself and Disapparated. At least now, unlike the last time, he had a pretty good idea where he was going. He had plenty of time to think about it.

**-X-**

The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, entered his office in a very bad mood. Nothing seemed to be working that week, nothing at all. Death Eater attacks had grown bolder in the past weeks; the goblins, who kept on insisting to be given more rights, making thinly veiled threats of what would happen if they didn’t; the missing Sword of Gryffindor, which Kingsley was assuming would show up in the _Daily Prophet_ any day now; missing centaurs; another Auror killed, meaning they would have to rush the current training session; and all of that before the plethora of other matters the Ministry simply had to deal with, from the colony of Dragons near Mount Snowdon getting out of hands to the Muggle Prime Minister _still_ demanding compensation for the Muggle families Voldemort had murdered.

No, it had not been a good week.

If he hadn’t been as distracted as he was, he would have realised it sooner. But now, with his keen Auror senses, he could feel it - there was someone in the room with him. He turned around sharply. Nothing. He looked behind the small door to his en suite. Nothing. But he knew he wasn’t alone. He had been an Auror too many years not to feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing up, not to recognise this eerie feeling of being watched.

“It’s alright, Kingsley,” he heard the familiar voice of Harry Potter, and saw the boy - no, he corrected himself, young man - revealing himself from beneath his invisibility cloak. “I had to make sure you got here alone.”

Kingsley nodded, and offered him a seat. As Harry sat down, Kingsley cast a well-chosen spell at the door, making sure no unexpected visitors show up.

“This isn’t the best place for you right now,” he commented.

“Yeah - can you please tell me why I’m on the run? Why do you guys want to arrest me?”

“Not arrest you,” Kingsley explained. “Forcibly commit at St Mungo’s.”

“Oh. The whole brain damage thing.”

He nodded.

“Why did you warn me, then?”

“I thought I already explained,” Kingsley said, slightly surprised at the question. “If I thought you were any kind of a danger to society or yourself - stubbornness aside - I wouldn’t. As it happens, you’re not, and I don’t think you should be committed. The rest of the council disagreed, and the director of St Mungo’s issued the injunction.”

“And you didn’t fight it.”

Kingsley sighed. It was going to be one of those conversations. He was getting slightly tired of having them with Harry, almost as tired as he was with having their direct opposite with Will Jones. “Frankly, Harry,” he said in his most patient voice, “I thought it was a better option than the alternative, which _was_ an arrest warrant. The council didn’t give me much choice on the matter.”

“You’re the Minister for Magic.”

 _Definitely_ one of those conversations. “Yes. I am. I could dismiss the council, make sure everyone knew I am the Minister and that my word is the law. Kind of like the Ministry was in the days of Fudge and Scrimgeour, don’t you think?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Kingsley’s patience had run out. It shouldn’t - not with Harry. He knew he could never really express to this boy - barely a man, really - how much he appreciated him, how much he respected him, how much he even looked up to him. He would never really be able to appreciate it. Nor should he - that was one of the reasons Kingsley appreciated Harry so much. It was the ease with which Harry accepted all that befell him, his willingness to to stand up for what he believed in and those he cared about. The last thing Albus Dumbledore had told him was to trust the boy - and he never felt he had a reason to doubt Dumbledore’s words.

But sometimes... oh, boy. Sometimes, Harry could be the most infuriating and stubborn person Kingsley had ever met, perhaps bar Dumbledore himself.

“You supported the moves I had made, Harry, only six months ago. I’m not angry - I’m happy. It was your support that helped me change the most problematic aspects of this role. We wizards have got used to never questioning the familiar order of things, never try new things unless we absolutely have to. The only reason those changes were accepted with such enthusiasm, rather than having the entire Ministry fight to their teeth with this new order, was that you supported it. In fact, you wanted it. We both agreed on that, remember?”

“Yeah,” the boy mumbled.

“Well, this is the price. My heads of office are paranoid, and damaged. Like our entire society. They don’t think clearly, and they don’t pay much attention to me when I try to convince them to think clearly. And they’re pretty united in that. This is the other side of the coin. And you should have known it, seeing as you were raised by Muggles. Giving away some of my power to other people means that sometimes, these people may not be the best for the job. So I ask you again - what do you think I should do? Do you think I should undo everything we tried to do in the past seven months? Give up this idea of a council, this idea of balance, and making sure the Minister doesn’t have all the authority? Should I decide that it’s important but I’m exempt, because I’m me?”

“No, of course not, it’s just - “ Harry struggled for words, but Kingsley didn’t help him. “It’s just - this isn’t how things were supposed to happen, Kingsley. Weren’t we supposed to be better by now, with Voldemort gone? Wasn’t that always the point?”

Kingsley didn’t answer. Deep inside, he thought that if Harry had managed to maintain such faith, perhaps even naivety, after everything he had been through, he didn’t want to be the one who brought reality crashing down around him. Even if it was happening, anyway.

“I better leave,” Harry said eventually.

“Do you need help getting out?”

“Nah, I’m fine, I’ll just go out the same way I came in.”

“Good to know security in this place is so good that a teenager in an invisibility cloak can sneak into my office undetected,” Kingsley said dryly, and Harry laughed.

“I’m very good at sneaking around,” he said.

“I’ve noticed. But, Harry... be careful.”

There was tension there - a bit like that first meeting after the the end of the war, when Harry came almost storming in, angry at the incarceration of the Malfoy boy. And, just like that day, he smiled now, and Kingsley felt the kind of relief that surprised him each time anew.

“Sure,” Harry answered, and was gone.

Kingsley watched him disappear under the invisibility cloak. No, he knew, he never would realise what he meant to their entire society. Maybe it was for the best. If he fully understood the role he had yet to play, Kingsley suspected, he would have refused to participate altogether. And if Kingsley had any hope of stopping their world from falling into complete chaos, it was only with the help, knowing or otherwise, of Harry Potter.

**-X-**

“Harry,” he heard someone calling his name, and jumped.

It was disappointing. He had done so well until then, trying to avoid being detected. He was in the Atrium, seconds away from his destination - but there was no way of getting there. He could navigate the corridors of the Ministry for Magic well enough under his cloak, but there was no hope to do the same in the Atrium. There were people everywhere, walking in both directions. Some were walking fast, hurrying to some meeting or duty they had to do, or in the other direction, attempting to get home as soon as possible. Others walked slowly with friends, laughing and gossiping about whatever it was that came to their minds. Some were crossing the big hall in weird zigzags or angles. Some were walking in a straight line, completely oblivious - or perhaps, intentionally ignoring - anyone in their path. And some moved in completely unpredictable ways, trying to navigate through the crowds.

In short, this was not the place to try to navigate while being invisible. He would have to stand there, in the corridor, and wait for some of the rush to die down, so he could sneak again through the barriers and outside of the Ministry. He retreated to a small corridor - the same corridor, he realised, he had hid in in his first visit to the Ministry after the war. The sweet, rotten smell that engulfed him was unforgettable, even though he had the feeling he had smelled it afterwards, too. Maybe such a smell stayed with you forever.

And now, someone was calling his name there. Even though he was invisible. He surveyed the corridor, not responding to the call. Maybe they were guessing, whoever they were? Perhaps he made some noise when walking into the corridor, and someone assumed, or thought... someone... there was no one in the corridor. It was completely empty. Where did that voice come from?

“Harry,” he heard it again, and realised he knew the voice. Immediately, he knew where it had come from.

Albus Dumbledore was standing at his portrait this time, completely awake. Harry remembered with a pang that this was not the first time Dumbledore had found him, even when he was wearing the cloak. Somehow, though, he never expected his old teacher to be able to accomplish this feat while being dead.

“Hello, Professor,” he said quietly as he stood in front of the portrait, still covered in his invisibility cloak.

“A rumour has come to my ears, Harry, that you’re not as popular as you’ve once been,” the portrait told him. Harry could have sworn that the eyes behind the half-moon glasses twinkled, even though they were just a painting.

“You shouldn’t listen to rumours, Professor,” Harry said, and the portrait chuckled. “I don’t suppose you could give my some advice?”

“I find,” said the portrait, “that it is best to allow the living to find their way without encouraging them to cater to the whims of old, dead men.”

“I figured you’d say something like that,” Harry sighed. “You know, just once, I’d like to see what would happen if you made something simple.”

“That, I’m afraid, will probably be the end of the world as we know it,” his old teacher said in such earnestness, that Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Careful now - you don’t want to be overheard! And now, I must leave you. Professor McGonagall seems to have mislaid her collection of vintage pens again. I should probably return to my portrait at her office and advise her that I have last seen them on the top drawer of her desk.”

And with that, he stepped outside out of the frame, and all that was left was the painted background of an armchair and some sweets.

Harry’s gaze turned away from the portrait and towards the Atrium. It was mostly empty now - time to make his move. He started edging towards the entrance, preparing to mutter an incantation to distract the guard just at the right time, when a distraction occurred all on its own - two goblins pushed through, walking right into Harry - and one of them fell down.

They started shouting at each other in Gobbledegook. Harry panicked for just a moment - was it possible the invisibility cloak moved a bit, revealed him for a moment? It didn’t seem to be the case - all eyes were directed at the two goblins, who were making a racket all through the Atrium.

“Oi! You two! Shut up and keep going, will you?” the security wizard was clearly unhappy with the noise. The goblins ignored him, and kept on shouting at each other. “I said,” he advanced towards them, “knock it off!”

Harry took the opportunity and passed through the gates, completely unnoticed. He was about to continue on his way, when a yelp and a scream behind him made him turn back to the Atrium.

The security wizard had done a terrible mistake - he had tried to separate the two goblins by magic, aiming his wand at them. The goblins would have nothing of it - immediately, they stopped their own squabbling and turned on the wizard. He didn’t even have time to react before they disarmed him.

“Now, what are we going to do with you?” asked the nastier-looking goblin, aiming the wand at the security wizard. The wizard, in turn, stared at the goblin in utter terror.

“You can’t do that!” he spluttered. “You can’t take my wand! Give me my wand back!”

The goblin looked at him with malevolent little eyes. “Maybe I won’t,” he said quietly. “Maybe I’ll keep your wand. Maybe I’ll kill you with the wand, and then claim it as my own.”

The other goblin looked at him, shaking his head. The first goblin seemed about to shout again, but in the end relented and threw the wand away in disgust. “Who needs wands anyway, just weak humans,” he hissed at the security wizard. “Here, have your wand. For now.” The two goblins then turned their back to the wizards in the Atrium and left through the barrier.

“I’ll be reporting you!” the security wizard shouted after them. “You’ll see, don’t expect to come here again!”

The goblin who had taken the wand said something to his friend in Gobbledegook, and they both laughed. There was something in their laughter - in their whole demeanour, in fact - that had caught Harry’s attention. He sneaked a look at the security wizard, then at the goblins again, and on almost nothing but a whim, started following them.

He had expected them to walk to Diagon Alley, into Gringotts. Only as he followed the goblins did he realise he had no idea where goblins spent their time in London, outside of the bank - if there even where goblins in the rest of London. But these two didn’t seem to be going towards Diagon Alley. Instead, they turned into a network of small service tunnels outside of the Atrium. Of course, Harry thought. That was their way of getting in and out without being seen by Muggles. He continued following them.

The tunnel became smaller and darker. The ceiling was getting lower - he had missed its downwards slope at one point, and hit his head on it. For a moment, he was afraid the goblins heard him - but they didn’t turn around, didn’t look suspiciously behind them, just kept on walking and talking in their rapid Gobbledegook. He wished he could understand what they were saying - all of a sudden, the notion of studying languages at Hogwarts didn’t seem so ridiculous. He remembered arguing with Hermione about it - he would have to admit to her that she was right. Who knows, he thought, maybe he was following them simply because they were in a bad mood, and he would have known it had he been able to understand their language. But as he thought back to the scene at the Atrium, he became more and more sure that something sinister was going on. The way they looked at each other, their words to the guard - it couldn’t be random.

The tunnel’s ceiling kept on getting lower and lower. Harry was becoming worried - what would happen if he could no longer follow the goblins? After all, they were much shorter than he was. But just before it became unbearably lower, they reached the end of the tunnel.

There was a gate at the end. The goblins opened it and left the tunnel, stepping into London itself. Harry caught the gate and turned the handle, attempting to follow - when everything went black.


	14. The Shadow of Jupiter

When he woke up, he was far away from the Ministry, far away from the tunnels and streets - and from London itself, by the looks of it. He was in a forest - the trees around him were high, the sky above almost hidden by their canopies, the ground below him cold and covered with snow.

He tried to get up before realising he was bound. He was someone’s prisoner.

He tried to stretch his hand, find his wand, but couldn’t. He tried to wriggle in this direction and that, to figure out whether his wand was nearby and out of reach, or whether it was gone, taken away from him. But when he tried to move to the side, he rolled with slightly too much force, and ended up flat on his face in the snow. He tried to push himself up again, but couldn’t. For some reason, his muscles refused to cooperate.

“Hey!” he shouted, realising there was no way to get out of this mess by himself - and wanting to see his captures. How did he get there, anyway? And who got him? A thought came to his mind, but he refused to consider it. These were not Death Eaters. They couldn’t be.

“Hey!” he shouted again, trying to catch his unknown captors’ attention. “Hey!”

And then he heard it - voices, speaking quietly, but not in any language he understood. They were speaking in Gobbledegook.

Goblins.

That’s what he gets for thinking he was so clever, for thinking he could follow goblins undetected. Too late, Harry realised the goblins heard him when he followed them, of course they did, and had planned their moves accordingly. Too late, he realised he had followed them without telling anyone where he was going, without telling anyone what he was doing; that he had followed them without anyone knowing about his whereabouts, with the entire society thinking he was missing anyway. He had no back up and no way to communicate to anyone in the wizarding world that he was in trouble.

He could die here, today, at the hands of the goblins, and no one would know.

There was only one hope. They hadn’t killed him so far. It wasn’t much of a hope, he had to admit, but it must have meant something. For a split second, he dared feel hope - he was Harry Potter, the goblins have suffered at the hands of Voldemort as well; perhaps his name meant something to them, too.

“Um, anyone can help me, please?” he called again. The goblins ignored him. His name probably didn’t mean that much, after all.

He tried wriggling back on his back. He couldn’t. His mouth and nose were slowly getting frozen, shoved into the snow, his neck stiff from trying to keep them above the ground. The rest of his was also getting frozen, his clothes already completely wet. Without realising it, he started shivering. If only he could get rid of _some_ of the rope, then perhaps - but no. He was tied all too well. No manoeuvring space, no ability to push himself upwards, or sideways, or in any useful direction.

It seemed he was doomed to stay there, slowly freezing to death.

And then he could feel a pair of strong hands, lifting him up. For a moment, he was flooded with relief and gratitude. Someone had listened to his pleading. But the relief disappeared as soon as it had arrived. He was sure it was Gobbledegook he heard just a moment ago, but these hands did not belong to a goblin: they were too long, too strong, too human.

After several seconds that seemed more like hours, he was turned around and put on his back. Now, he could see his unknown benefactor, and could only stare in confusion. He stared at the four legs, covered in brown hair and ending with hooves. He looked up, to where the hair ended and turned into a human torso, a chest, and two strong hands. And slightly above, the face that was almost human in its features, but looked at him as no human had ever looked at him, as if he were some curious specimen.

Harry swallowed and looked around. It was not just this centaur. All around him, between the trees, he could see them - goblins and centaurs, sitting together, whispering together, laughing together. By a fire, far from him, he could see the goblins sitting to get warm, while the centaurs stood above them, crowding the fire to enjoy the flames. The edges of this makeshift camp had sentries in them, goblins and centaurs together, looking outside.

“Oh,” said his centaur, and didn’t sound friendly at all. “He’s awake.”

“Well, I have been shouting for quite some time,” Harry said, more out of a need to say anything than because he thought it will contribute to the conversation.

“You will have to excuse us,” said a new voice, that sounded even less friendly than the first. “I know wizards are used to have all their needs met immediately, but we were kind of busy, you see.”

This one was a goblin. He was glaring at Harry, an ugly look on his small, black eyes, hatred on his face.

This one is dangerous, Harry knew. He could see it in his eyes. This one would kill him if he had the chance.

“Have we met?” he asked as pleasantly as he could.

“No. You wouldn’t know me,” the goblin answered. “I make it a point not to spend my time with robbers and thieves.”

“I didn’t rob anything!” Harry answered angrily.

“Silence! I care not for wizard lies! You are a robber and a thief, just like the rest of your kind!”

“I didn’t rob - “

“Silence!” a short sword was now aimed at Harry’s throat. The goblin’s eyes narrowed, and despite his anger, there was a small smile on his face. “We are planning to trade you for the sword,” the said quietly, “but we could just also tell the wizards you’re alive and kill you all the same. Just give me a reason, wizard.”

“Gleyok!” the centaur said warningly. “We need Potter alive.”

The goblin didn’t lower his sword. Harry swallowed, looking from Gleyok to the centaur. The centaur trotted closer to them.

“You see, Harry Potter, that Gleyok isn’t listening to me. His kind have had enough of the lies of wizard. It is a well known fact by now that you and your friends have broken into Gringotts Bank not even a year ago, and stole something entrusted to the goblins. And now, you further offend him by trying to trick him and pretend it did not happen. That, I must say, is not the wisest of actions. The goblins were in much turmoil that someone had managed to break into Gringotts, an event they had not yet recovered from. You shouldn’t add to it by insulting them.”

“I didn’t do it to steal anything from anyone,” Harry said quietly, his eyes on the goblin, “it was the only way to destroy Voldemort.”

In response, there was a sharp pain in his throat. The goblin had pushed the sword just another millimetre into it. Harry could feel something wet - blood, he thought desperately - on his throat, near the cold blade.

“Wrong answer,” Gleyok said and smiled an evil smile. “We do not care why you did it. The wars of wizards are none of our concern. Only that you did. And here you are, thinking it can be justified.”

The sword pushed further into his throat. Despite previously telling the goblin off, the centaur did nothing to stop him. Harry started panicking in earnest.

“I’m sorry!” he said, even though it was painful to talk. “It was the only way! We never meant to - to humiliate you - or anything! Just to destroy him, that’s all! And we gave Griphook the sword, we didn’t - “

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next. When he was next aware of what was going on, it was because of his throat - it felt as if he was on fire. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what had happened, but all that came out was a weird gurgle. He tried touching his throat - it felt like it was wide open - but he couldn’t move his hands. He was still bound. Someone slapped something to his throat. It was cool and wet, but it felt better, took some of the pain away.

Harry opened his eyes. A new goblin was applying bandages to his throat. The centaur was still standing there, looking at him with amusement.

“Don’t try to speak just yet,” he said when Harry opened his mouth. “It’ll take a couple of hours before the wound heals. And it might do you good, Potter. You have a gift of saying just the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

Harry wanted to ask what had he said that was so wrong, but couldn’t, of course. The centaur didn’t seem to volunteer any more information, too, just kept on standing there, looking at Harry. The pain was now returning to his throat, the temporary soothing effect of the bandages dissipating. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, so the pain would disappear and he’d be able to think properly.

It was maddening! Tied up here, without his wand, without any knowledge of where he was and why, without even the ability to speak. He couldn’t just stay there, wait for them to do whatever it is they wanted to do with him - what did the goblin say? Trade him for something. But it didn’t look like they cared too much if they ended up killing him, either.

Of course they wouldn’t. The history books he had read at Andromeda’s house were still fresh in his mind. That had been a favourite technique of the wizards while dealing with the goblins. Making deals they never had any intention to keep. Promising the goblins treasure, or special rights, or wands - and always phrasing their promise in such a way that was not binding, or gave them a way out. Harry felt a small pang of guilt - wasn’t that exactly what he had tried to do to Griphook, less than a year ago? Wasn’t that why they were angry with him?

He knew this was far from accurate. Griphook had never given him the chance to double-cross him, to break his word. He made sure to do it, first. They couldn’t know he was going to do the same. They just never gave him the chance to prove they were right, after all.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t realise he had dozed off. Everything around him was quiet when he closed his eyes, but now he could hear voices somewhere nearby, make up coherent words and sentences.

“The wizards may demand seeing him before turning in the sword,” said a pleasant voice. His centaur. They were discussing his fate. Harry tried to breathe normally, to pretend to be asleep, not to alert any of his captors to the fact he was awake now, awake and listening.

“The wizards are in no position to make demands,” growled a harsher voice - a goblin. Harry suspected it was Gleyok. But it was the next voice that almost gave him away, almost made him jump.

“The wizards, of course, won’t see it that way,” said a second goblin, and Harry immediately knew it was Griphook. So he was there too - he was one of them. Despite helping Harry break into Gringotts, he was now a part of the plot - and Harry now remembered the curious meeting of goblins in a faraway house, several months ago. Were they planning it then? How long have they been working together with the centaurs?

Gleyok said something in Gobbledegook, and the centaur said, irritated, “Not all of us speak your tongue, goblin.”

Harry had to stop himself from smiling at the irony. Goblins and centaurs, plotting together against wizards in English, because they did not speak each other’s language.

“I said,” started the malevolent voice of Gleyok, “that I don’t care how the wizards see it.”

“That is foolish. They are a formidable enemy, even if they are often lazy and arrogant. If we - “

“This is irrelevant!” Gleyok cut across him. “There are no more ifs. When the wizards see the head of their war hero cut from his head by the sword his ancestors stole from us, there will be war - and this time, with the sword in our hands, they will lose! If you are not committed - “

“Of course I am,” Griphook said. “But Potter has proved himself to be - a different wizard.”

“They are all the same,” the centaur interrupted. “Potter, too. We have had dealings with him, in our forest near their School. He, too, showed the arrogance of his kind.”

“He saved my life,” Griphook said quietly. “Our previous plan was good. Killing their leaders makes sense! Those are the ones who deny us our rights!”

“Infiltrating their ministry is dangerous,” the centaur said. “It made sense when we didn’t have Potter. Now, seeing as he delivered himself so willingly into our hands, we can make the same point, with less danger to ourselves.”

“I just wish it hadn’t been Potter.”

“It can’t be anyone _but_ Potter.”

“Very well,” Griphook said, and Harry wanted to shout at him. I saved your life! He tried to control his breathing, to appear to still be asleep. If the goblins and centaurs had any hint that he heard them, he imagined they would prefer to kill him now and be done with it. He had to find some way out of this mess.

He didn’t get much chance to feign sleep, though. A strong leg - with hooves, he thought angrily, feeling the end of the non-human leg - kicked him.

“Argh,” he noted, and opened his eyes.

“I am sorry,” said the centaur, without sounding sorry at all. “But you need to drink this. It will make you feel better.” A shorter hand - a goblin’s - forced some liquid down his throat.

It didn’t make Harry feel better - it made him feel a lot worse. The liquid burned down his throat. The goblin didn’t wait to see Harry swallow - or choking on the liquid, for that matter - but forced more and more of it down, despite Harry’s spluttering and coughs. And to add insult to injury, it was also downright disgusting.

“What was that?” Harry asked, his words sounding more like a rattle than his own speech.

“Just something to make you feel better. After all, we need you healthy if we intend to make a deal with the Ministry of Magic.” The centaur’s voice was still pleasant when he told the lie, as if he had nothing but Harry’s best interest in mind. But Harry now knew better.

“The Ministry will come after you, you realise that,” he tried poking holes in the centaur’s scenario. Anything to keep him talking. Anything to find his way out before it’s too late.

“Oh, I’m afraid the Ministry may find it somewhat hard to find us. After all, they’ve been looking for us since we have left the forest at Hogwarts.”

“They weren’t looking for you! Not really. They had more important things on their minds. But now, if you demand ransom for me, they would. And they will find you.”

The centaur chuckled. “I’m afraid you will find, Harry Potter, that we centaurs have some secrets of our own that are unknown to the Ministry.”

Something to talk about. Something to keep him busy. Anything. “Where’s my wand?” he asked.

“Why, right here,” the centaur gestured to a point behind Harry. He was right - Harry’s wand was lying there, unnoticed and unwanted, behind a group of rocks. Just out of reach. “We thought we’d keep it safe for you, as long as you are our guest,” the centaur chuckled, and Harry tried calculating the distance. If he could only get to it - but there was no hope of that, not as long as he watched by this centaur.

“Why do you want the Sword of Gryffindor?” Harry asked, in the most casual voice he could muster - which was quite a feat, as mustering any voice at all required more work than usual.

“Well, _they_ believe it belongs to them,” the centaur gestured at a group of goblins.

“They wouldn’t risk a war in order to get it, though.”

“Wouldn’t they?” the centaur raised an eyebrow, but looked clearly amused.

“And the centaurs? What are you getting out of this?”

“You should go back to sleep, Harry Potter,” the centaur said.

“I’m just trying to understand - “

“Sleep!” the centaur bellowed. Harry found his eyes closing on their own accord.

He woke up from the cold. It had started snowing while he was asleep. There was a small layer of white flakes on his clothes, and no doubt on his head, too. He could barely see it, only the movement of the white flakes from his shivering made it obvious there was something there. And he was shivering - shivering hard. He could see at the distance the fires, the goblins and centaurs crowded around them, laughing and eating. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been hours since he last ate. But no one seemed to notice - even the centaur that had stayed around him until then was gone, undoubtedly gone to enjoy the food and warmth near the fire. He was stuck there, alone, stiff from being tied up all these hours, starving, and freezing. And of course his captors didn’t mind - they were going to kill him anyway, what difference did it make to them if he was uncomfortable until then.

He tried calling out to them, but his throat was so dry and painful that nothing came out except for a small gurgling sound. He could never catch anyone’s attention that way. He knew he won’t be able to get up, but he had to do something to get his blood running again, to try and get warm. He couldn’t stay sitting there, waiting for the snow to cover him.

Jump, roll, shove. He almost fell on his face again, but managed to avert that catastrophe in the last second. Push. There was a rock, somewhere nearby. If he could lean on it and push just right, he might be able to get up. And then what? a small voice in his head insisted. Get lost in these woods? Hop all the way to the fire? That idea had some ring to it, he had to admit. Hopping all the way to the fire, demanding to get some of whatever it was they were eating and drinking. Remind them they hadn’t killed him yet.

It might just be the thing that would goad them into killing him, though.

He was getting closer to that rock. Three feet. Two and three-quarters. Two and a half. Just another push. Just another shove. He had a chance to get there. Two feet.

“You really should go back to sleep,” said an amused voice above him, and Harry jumped in surprise. It was the centaur. When did he get back here? Harry wondered. He must have concentrated so much on moving towards the rock that he hadn’t noticed.

He tried to answer, but he could only utter a few disjointed words. “Can’t. Cold.”

The centaur’s amused expression was maddening. He was freezing here, and all the centaur could do was chuckle? “Yes,” the centaur said. “You humans are very sensitive to low temperatures, aren’t you?”

He didn’t offer Harry any help, no help in getting up, nor something to warm him up. Harry started shaking out of anger as well as the cold. Well, if the centaur wasn’t going to help him up, he will do so himself. He was going on now out of anger and spite as much as the need to get up.

“I wouldn’t continue in that direction if I were you,” the centaur said, his tone as pleasant and amused as always. Harry ignored him and kept on pushing himself towards the rock. “No, really. It is rather unwise of you to proceed in this direction.”

Harry kept on ignoring. One foot. Push. Just a little more and - _splash_. He did not see the hole in the ground, so close to the rock. It was full of mud and half-frozen water. Harry fell with his face straight in, and couldn’t get up. He started struggling uselessly, his entire body numb, trying to push his neck upwards, get his head up to breathe. But only freezing water and mud came through. He was going to suffocate, he was going to choke, he was going to freeze, he couldn’t feel anything, his face, his hands, all wet, all freezing -

Someone pulled him out. He coughed the mud out of his mouth, trying to shake his head to get it out of his eyes. He was gasping for breath, unable to think, unable to move, shaking violently.

“I did warn you,” he could hear the centaur saying. Anger took over him. He was freezing there half to death, and the centaur found it _funny_. He tried to pull himself upwards, to see where he was - he was on the other side of the hole. He was next to the rock. Out of sheer spite, he managed to push himself over that remaining distance to the rock, crashing into it in full force. He felt dizzy for a moment - his head had hit the rock, most likely - but didn’t let this stop him. Using the rock as leverage, he pulled himself up, despite the shivering, despite the freezing cold, despite the pain... He cut his leg now on the rock, but he didn’t mind. One... more... push.

He got on his feet. Slightly wobbling, he was afraid he’d fall, as he had no way of supporting himself. But he managed to remain straight up, and look at the centaur right in the eye.

“Very impressive,” said the centaur with a cold sneer. The pleasantness was gone from his voice, as was the amusement.

Harry took a deep breath. It hurt. It felt almost as if he was breathing in ice water, or a bunch of small, ice-cold needles. But he didn’t care. He was going to have his say. And he was going to find a way out of this mess. And he was going to survive. And he was going to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Get... me... something... warm!” he said amidst chattering teeth.

The centaur remained stood there, impassive. “Get it yourself, wizard,” the centaur said coldly. “That’s what you wizards are good at, isn’t it.”

“Why... are... you... doing... this?” Harry forced the words out of his mouth.

The centaur kicked Harry with a well-aimed hoof. Harry fell to the ground. The centaur kicked him again. Harry could taste the blood on his lips, in his mouth. The centaur lowered himself so that his face was now in front of Harry’s, his arms grabbing him. For a moment, Harry thought he was going to strangle him, but the centaur simply put him back on the snowy ground, away from the stone and its leverage.

“The time of the wizards is up,” he whispered coarsely. “We have waited, we have watched. We wanted to see if now that your war is over you will be willing to correct all of your mistakes. But once again, wizards are only concerned with other wizards. You have seen this, too. We are tired of waiting, Harry Potter. Now sleep.”

Harry struggled with the darkness that was summoned by the command, but it won and overtook him.

Someone was nudging it. He didn’t want to wake up. He was comfortable here, in bed, under the warm blanket. Someone nudged him again. He wanted to tell whoever it was to stop it, but no words came out of his mouth. He couldn’t quite move his jaw. That was weird - why wouldn’t his jaw move? He wanted to send a hand to check it, but the hand wouldn’t move, either. Was he locked in the body-bind curse?

The nudging started again. He could barely feel it. Whoever it was touched his hand, but it felt like a memory of a touch, not a touch itself. Was that a ghost? No, he thought rationally. A ghost couldn’t nudge him, they’d go straight through him.

He was so tired.

“Get up, Potter!” someone was whispering urgently behind him. He knew that voice. He knew the owner of that voice. It was... it was... it was the goblin, Griphook.

Harry’s eyes flicked open, and the dream of a comfortable bad was over. He was no longer on the freezing ground - even his captors must have realised that letting him freeze to death would not serve their aims. Instead, he was wrapped in a smelly blanket. He was still outside, still in the cold - he could see a layer of snow on the blanket. And he could barely move his body or hands - but he could move them. Griphook had undone the ropes that had bound him.

He sat up and started removing the remaining of the rope. Griphook stood next to him, a knife in his hand. “You need to get out of here, Potter,” he whispered. Harry didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.

Griphook shoved something to his hand. “Your cloak,” he said shortly. Harry fixed his glasses, which were covered in mud and snow, and looked around. He trusted Griphook that this was his cloak, but there was something else he needed. And there it was - right where it had been all the time, completely untouched. He jumped and grabbed his wand.

Griphook looked at the wand almost in longing. It was as if he regretted not taking the wand when he had the chance. Harry pocketed it inside his clothes, before Griphook had a change of mind.

“Now leave,” Griphook said.

But Harry had something else he had to know. “Why?” he croaked at the goblin.

“You have saved my life,” the goblin whispered. “And you have shown kindness afterwards, to the house-elf as well as myself. The war between my people and yours cannot be averted, not anymore. Nor should it be,” he looked at Harry, as if challenging him to disagree. “But there are other ways to achieve that end. Ways that do not require your murder. “

Harry nodded. He wasn’t quite sure whether he was grateful or not, so he settled for nodding.

“This is the second time I betray my kind for you, Harry Potter. Don’t disappoint me.”

Harry nodded again, and turned on the spot, leaving the goblin and the forest behind him.

The clever thing to do would be to Apparate at the Ministry, he knew. Or directly to Kingsley’s house. He had to warn everyone else that another war was breaking, that the goblins and centaurs were working together - that the Ministry was in danger. Wasn’t that what Griphook meant? Their original plan, before they caught Harry, was to attack the Ministry. Now that Harry had escaped, they were bound to go back to that plan.

But doubt overcame him. What if no one believes him? What if this would serve as the proof for Kingsley that he’s finally lost it, and he will turn him in instead of doing something? Or worse - what if Kingsley believed him, but won’t be able to do anything, because of the council? He had to find another solution.

He didn’t mean to Apparate back to Hogwarts. If he thought about it rationally, there was nothing there that could help him. Especially in the middle of the night. But he was too cold and worried to think rationally. And so he found himself going back to the one place that had held answers for him in the past.

It was a long, freezing walk from the gates to the school, made longer by his uncooperative legs. In his mind, he imagined the warm fireplace of Gryffindor tower, the comfortable armchairs, perhaps even food from the kitchen. That thought was the only thing that sustained him as he climbed all the way up the familiar stairs until he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Let me in,” he urged the painting.

“Password?” she asked.

He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t. “Let me in, please,” he tried.

“I can’t let you in without the password,” she told him sternly. “If you want to visit your friends, you should do it while they’re awake, anyway. I don’t see why I need to stay awake just because you fancied a nighttime visit.”

“Open up!” he almost shouted in frustration, but that didn’t leave any impression on the painting.

“Being rude isn’t going to help you,” she said, and he wanted to scream. He couldn’t want until morning.

“Please,” he said again, but the Fat Lady just shook her head.

“Not without the password.”

Not without the password... but there was one tower that didn’t require a password, wasn’t there?

He rushed down the stairs and towards the other end of the castle, where Luna was fast asleep in the Ravenclaw tower.

Of course, before reaching Luna, he would have to answer the riddle. The bronze, raven-shaped knocker at the entrance to Ravenclaw Tower looked at him unimpressed.

“What is true?” it challenged him.

Harry stared at the knocker in disbelief. _This_ was the question he was asked? The knocker might as well tell him it had no intention of letting him in and be done with it!

“I don’t know!” he blurted angrily.

The knocker chuckled. “While not the best phrased answer, this _is_ the general idea,” it said, and the door opened. Harry didn’t hesitate and darted into the room. It was empty and dark, of course. Everyone was sleeping. He climbed up the stairs, looking for the seventh year girls’ dormitories. When he found it, he jumped up the stairs so fast, that they didn’t even have the time to turn into a slide - not until he had reached the top. Then, he started swaying, unbalanced.

His leg threatened to buckle under him. It had suffered enough abuse for one day, and jumping three stairs at once seemed to tip it over the edge. But he refused to give up, not now. He caught himself, and went through the door, and there, he paused. Was he really going to go through each one of the four-poster beds, only to find Luna? He could think of various words to describe that action, all negative.

But he didn’t come all this way only to start worrying about that. He started sneaking around the beds. Not Luna. Not Luna. Not - wait. Dirty blonde hair, a weird set of earrings on the bed stand - that was definitely Luna.

“Luna,” he whispered.

She turned her back at him, still deep asleep.

“Luna,” he nudged her a bit with her hand. “Luna, wake up.”

She stirred now, slowly blinking, then looking at him. “Harry,” she said - not half as surprised as he expected her to be. “This is a weird time for you to show up. Have you taken up sleepwalking?”

“Luna, I need help.” He ignored the bit about sleepwalking.

“Why didn’t you go to the Gryffindor tower? I’m sure Hermione and Ginny are there.”

Was she admonishing him for waking her up in the middle of the night? Probably, but that was not the time for worrying about that.

“I don’t have the password. Listen, Luna, I need your advice.”

She nodded, if still somewhat displeased. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. “I don’t want to wake everyone up.”

He nodded, grateful. The slid down what used to be the stairs - “oh, no, I won’t be able to get back here again for another three hours,” Luna said when she saw that - and then continued to sit in front of the fire.

“You’re all wet,” she commented, now that the light from the fireplace showed the full sorry state of his clothes and face. “And you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said shortly.

“What happened to you?”

“I was captured by the goblins and centaurs. They’re planning a war. They wanted to use me to get the Sword of Gryffindor from the Ministry.”

“Do they want it because of the Jupiter effect?” asked Luna, not looking even slightly fazed over the fact Harry had been kidnapped by unfriendly and borderline murderous non-human inhabitants of the magical world.

“The - what?”

“It’s a bit of a silly name, I think, but some people like it. Because it sort of makes the Sword of Gryffindor the king of swords, see?”

“What are you talking about, Luna?” he asked, trying to force himself into patience.

“Well, they say that the four artefacts created by the four founders of the school were forged together and given their magic together. So they’re linked.”

“Wait, I remember that,” he said slowly. “Arthur mentioned this. When Voldemort turned each artefact into a Horcrux, they lost their powers, and the powers went into the one artefact that was still whole.”

“Yes, that’s true. Like I said, calling it Jupiter is a bit ridiculous. They should have found an absorbing creature, like the Abzorbaloff of Papua-New Guinea, and name it after it, but I suppose they like the name Jupiter better.”

“How do you know these things?!” He wondered, but couldn’t follow her long explanation that seemed to include the Quibbler and something about the Weird Sister’s singer. Instead, he thought of Gleyok’s words - with the sword in the hands of the goblins, the wizards were bound to lose. “That must be what they meant.”

“What who meant?” Luna asked, but Harry didn’t answer.

“Luna, they plan to attack the Ministry. We have to stop them.”

“Why don’t you go to the Ministry and warn them?” she suggested reasonably, but Harry dismissed the suggestion. He had no time - or energy - to go through everything with her, all his fears and worries and the possibility that they just wouldn’t believe him.

“Well, if you don’t want to go to the Ministry, I’ve always found that help from you guys was all I need. You know, getting help from friends.”

“That’s why I came here,” he said. But what help could he get here? Luna didn’t know what to do, and Hermione and Ginny would probably be the same - not to mention they were sleeping now, locked behind the unknown password of Gryffindor Tower. Ron and Neville were in Auror training, and he couldn’t even risk getting there. While Kingsley might listen to him before calling the Healers, he had no doubt that Savage would not even wait for that, and simply catch him. The Weasleys were under surveillance from the Ministry, as was Andromeda Tonks.

He had to turn to someone who would rather help him than call the Ministry; someone resourceful, who could think fast on his feet; and someone that the Ministry did not already think he would turn to. Someone who wasn’t his friend. Someone like -

“Luna,” he said, excited, “I need to get to Diagon Alley!”


	15. Allies

There had to be worse ways to show up on Malfoy’s doorstep, but Harry couldn’t think of any of them at the moment.

He had a hard time thinking, anyway. Sitting down and talking to Luna was a much needed rest, but his adrenaline levels, which had been abused throughout the entire day, had finally given up. He could barely get himself up from the armchair, let along walk down the stairs, out of the castle, and to a place he could Apparate from. And he didn’t even want to think about Apparition.

Luna, of course, immediately volunteered to help him. He felt a bit uncomfortable at first, and a bit guilty - not only had he woken her up in the middle of the night, but he would also be dragging her out of the castle in the cold. But she only insisted that the cold air is a natural vaccine against giant Kaflifs. He didn’t bother asking what Kaflifs were, just nodded and let her support him down the stairs. He covered the both of them with the invisibility cloak - the last thing they needed right now was to be found by a teacher or by Peeves; but if walking under the cloak had been hard for two people, being supported under the cloak was almost impossible. It seemed like forever before they went through the front doors. And by the time they had reached the Hogwarts gates, dawn was breaking, and the sky were no longer dark but a light purplish shade.

Luna took his hand gently before turning on the spot. He allowed himself to be guided by her in the Apparition. The last time he had side-along Apparated was with Dumbledore, he remembered, and his heart gave a little pinch. But it was better to allow Luna to do the hard work, as he doubted his low concentration would do anything other than get him splinched.

The compression feeling was extremely unpleasant, even more so because he was not the one controlling it. As soon as he had oxygen again, he doubled back, holding himself above the ground, not sure whether he was going to throw up or simply fall.

“Are you alright?” Luna asked.

“Yeah - I just need - just a moment...” the dizziness passed. He managed not to vomit and not to fall, and for a moment that seemed like quite the achievement. “Okay,” he said finally. “Now we just need to find out where he lives.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I know he lives with Daphne Greengrass,” Harry sighed. “And I know she lives in Diagon Alley. But not where.”

“How do you know she lives here?” Luna asked in interest.

“Malfoy told me,” he said, but at that moment, he stopped to think. Draco did tell him, but he had a feeling he had known it before. Had he talked to Daphne Greengrass? He didn’t think he ever had the chance - or the misfortune, as it were - to talk to her. Definitely not at Hogwarts. And when he was working at Diagon Alley, only when - “when the goblins attacked that centaur!” he called and Luna jumped. “Come on, she lives in front of Gringotts.”

Harry guided her towards the bank, into the building he remembered Daphne Greengrass disappeared to. It was a small shop for quills and parchments, and in the floors above, what seemed like several small flats. They climbed the stairs to the flat still covered in the invisibility cloak. Harry almost tripped on it a couple of times - he was glad Luna was still there to help him. He had a feeling his entire body was full of blue and yellow marks - probably hoof-shaped. And the cut in his leg made it harder and harder to use it.

After climbing two floors - that felt like two hundred - they found a small door with the inscription _Daphne and Astoria Greengrass_. Harry knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again. Was that noise someone stirring at the back? He knocked harder, and this time Luna joined him.

“Hold on,” they could hear a voice from within the flat - Malfoy’s voice. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” they could hear him half-mumbling.

“He’s not going to be happy,” Luna said, and Harry shrugged. He needed Malfoy’s help, yes - didn’t mean he had to care about his happiness.

Finally, the door opened. Malfoy looked at the corridor, confused - and Harry realised they were still under the invisibility cloak. He took it off, and Malfoy’s confused expression turned hard and unhappy.

“What do you want?” he half-asked, half-sneered, in that familiar Malfoy intonation.

Harry ignored him and walked into the flat. He was not going to explain in the corridor - if only because he felt his leg would not support him any longer. Besides - Malfoy owed him. He wasn’t going to give him the chance to refuse.

“Any chance for a cup of tea?” he asked as he sat down on the sofa. Malfoy stared at him from his place near the door. “You may want to close that door,” Harry added. “It’s kinda cold outside.”

“Potter, what are you doing here?” Malfoy, quite pointedly, failed to close the door.

“I need a favour. And I figured you owed me one. Well - several, actually. I could count them right now, but I’d rather do it over tea. And a biscuit,” he added hopefully. His stomach grumbled in agreement.

“You’re covered in mud. And blood,” Malfoy observed.

And I couldn’t stand up right now even if I wanted to, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell you that, he thought to himself, but aloud he only said, “It’s a hobby.”

“Daphne is going to kill you,” Malfoy said his last and went to take care of the kettle.

“You can go back to Hogwarts,” he mumbled to Luna. “I’ll be alright from here.”

“Oh, but I’d like to stay - I love the adventure. Most of what happened in the last couple of years wasn’t very fun, but the DA meetings were always the best part of the day, and I’ve quite missed that,” she sad happily.

Harry wanted to say something, but no words had come out. He could imagine Hermione’s words had he said something like that to her, suggested she went back - she would chide him for suggesting this when he himself wasn’t in a very good condition; or Ginny, who would tell him off for trying to keep her out of it yet again. They’d be right, of course - they were always right on these matters, and he knew it, even if he did his best to pretend he didn’t. And Luna would have been right to do the same now. But she didn’t - just mentioned how she’d enjoy the adventure. He couldn’t think of a way to thank her for saying that, so he just remained silent.   
He needed to find something to occupy himself with, to avoid the silence, so he lifted the leg of his trousers to reveal the place he had hit the rock. There was a nasty cut there. It was not longer bleeding, but a large amount of dark blood had congealed around the wound.

“Eurgh,” Malfoy said at the sight of the wound. He just came back from the kitchen carrying the kettle with three cups of tea floating behind him. Harry ignored him - and the wound - and took one cup, put copious amounts of sugar in his tea, and munched on a small chocolate biscuit while Malfoy stared at him in awe mixed with disgust.

“You need to take care of that leg, Potter,” he commented.

“Yeah, I know. I just like those biscuits that much,” Harry said as he wolfed down another three or four biscuits. He hadn’t intended to be so sarcastic towards Malfoy - he certainly didn’t open his mouth with the intention of dismissing everything he had to say. It was the force of habit, he guessed. The force of habit, combined with the knowledge that showing weakness next to Malfoy could only end one way - badly. But he couldn’t afford alienating this unlikely ally - he could see in Malfoy’s face the anger growing. A couple of years ago, they would have already been cursing each other. Hell, a couple of years ago, Malfoy wouldn’t have let him walk into the room without cursing him. But now Malfoy was trying to contain his anger, if only because of the memory of Harry’s testimony.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t mean to be an arse. It’s just been a really long day.”

“I gathered,” Malfoy said dryly - but his face seemed to be less flushed now, slightly less angry.

Harry lifted his trouser leg again, wincing at the blood. “Tergeo,” he said the incantation, aiming his wand, vanishing the blood that surrounded the cut. It didn’t look any prettier now - in fact, it gave him a chance to see how deep the gush was.

“Hold on, I think Daphne’s got something for that,” Malfoy got up again, and returned a moment later with a bandage and some potion. He applied some of the potion to the bandage, then attached it to Harry’s leg. The pain immediately dulled. Harry’s head cleared a little.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, not looking at Malfoy.

“So, was that the favour you wanted?” Malfoy asked, his voice reflecting Harry’s sarcasm from a moment ago.

“Not quite.”

“You know, I don’t get you, Potter. You get all your friends pissed off with you, then disappear from the face of the earth, and now you’re asking _me_ for help, accompanied by Looney Lovegood! What, Weasley and Granger turned on you?”

Harry bit back the urge to say ‘shut up, Malfoy’. Instead, he took a deep breath. Now or never. “Getting to Ron and Hermione would take too long. What we need to do, we need to do now, before it’s too late.”

“And what is it you need to do?”

“The goblins and the centaurs are about to attack the Ministry. I think - I think they’re going to kill everyone in there.”

“You’re delusional.” It wasn’t Malfoy - Harry lifted his head in surprise, as did Malfoy. At the door of the living room, covered in a pink, fluffy robe, was Daphne Greengrass. “What are you all looking so surprised for?” she snapped. “I live here, you know.”

“Right. Sorry,” Harry mumbled.

“You’re barking mad,” she continued. “Why would the goblins want to attack the Ministry? And the centaurs! No one even know where they are.”

“They’re with the goblins.”

“But why would they want to attack the Ministry?! That would start a war!”

“That’s what they want,” Harry explained. “They’re tired of the laws they have to live under. They think the only way they can change that is by war - it was the same with the goblin revolt of 1674,” he explained, remembering the books he read at Andromeda’s house.

Malfoy, who had no idea of Harry’s whereabouts in the past several weeks, commented that he definitely spent too much time with Hermione.

“Thing is, they’re not willing to wait any longer and they don’t think it’s going to be any good. They don’t believe they can get equal rights under wizarding law anymore.” And they kinda had a point, Harry thought to himself. “They’re trying to take over now.”

“So go to Shacklebolt. He’s your pal, isn’t he?”

“It’s... complicated.”

Daphne tutted at him, but to his surprise, Malfoy nodded. It looked like he had expected the reaction Harry faced, or at least understood it.

“So what do you think of doing?”

“Get into the Ministry. Stop them before they kill everyone.”

Daphne gasped. Malfoy looked at him, revolted. Luna, on the other hand, hummed happily and started looking at Daphne’s collection of stones on the fireplace.

“I owe Pansy an apology,” Draco said at last. “You really have lost it. Do you know how hard it would be to break into the Ministry?”

“They said the same about Gringotts, and I managed that, didn’t I?”

“Not on your own.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be on my own.” Harry looked straight into Malfoy’s eyes. “You’re going to help me.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether the sound Malfoy made was the result of choking, or just regular coughing. “And why would I do that?” Malfoy asked after he finished making incredulous noises.

“Because, like I said, I figure you owe me one. Or several.”

“And you’re collecting on that?!”

“Yes. I am.”

They glared at each other for a moment.

“I’m a convicted criminal, Potter,” Malfoy said slowly. “A convicted Death Eater. Or have you forgotten?” he rolled up the sleeve of his left hand, revealing the ugly tattoo on it. It was barely visible. Had Harry not known it to be there, he would have though it was just a weirdly-shaped stain. But it was still there, and he could still make up the skull and the snake. “Yeah,” Malfoy said again, interpreting correctly the expression of disgust on Harry’s face. “Exactly, Wonder Boy. This isn’t going to go away, this isn’t going to fade away, not completely, not ever. If I get caught breaking into the Ministry of Magic, _this_ is the first thing anyone’s going to think about,” he waved his arm again in front of Harry’s eyes before rolling back down his sleeve and hiding the tattoo from sight. Then he shrugged. “I can’t afford paying you back on this one, Potter. You’ll have to find something else to collect on.”

But there was the hint of reluctance in his eyes. Harry could see it, could hear it in his voice. The idea of breaking into the Ministry appealed to him - and undoubtedly, the idea of being the hero for once.

“What if we don’t get caught, though?” Harry asked. “What if we save them all? Think about it - Draco Malfoy, the hero who saved the Ministry!”

“You mean Harry Potter and his sidekicks,” Malfoy spat.

“I don’t need the glory, Malfoy. I don’t want it. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“No, you’re doing this because you can’t help playing the hero, can you? This is your game. Saving the world. Being the hero. Adored by everyone. You really are insufferable, you know that?”

“Then let’s change the game. You be the hero on this one, I’ll be the sidekick. Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, _convicted criminal_ , saving the world. Stopping a war. Sounds pretty good to me.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. He was considering it! Harry didn’t dare say a word, hardly dared breathing.

“You can’t be serious, Draco?!” Daphne understood the nature of the silence, too. “You two will get caught! And then where would all this rubbish about saving the world be? Potter will get to walk, ‘cause he’s Potter, and you’ll be back in Azkaban and you’d be lucky if they let you out before they let your Dad out!”

What Harry’s words couldn’t do, Daphne’s did. Malfoy perked up, an angry look on his face. “Then what?” he hissed at her. “Always lowering my head? Always letting other people get the glory? Hope I don’t get noticed because I’m afraid of the reaction? To hell with them, and to hell with you, and to hell with you, too!” he said that last bit to Harry. “I’m a Malfoy. We’re better than this, better than the lot of you. Yeah, I’m going to do it. To hell with it, I’m going to do it and I don’t care if I end up in Azkaban because of it because I’m not going to cower here in your flat and be ashamed of being a Malfoy for the rest of my life!”

He stood there, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks flushed. Daphne looked too shocked to be offended, and Luna stared at him as if she didn’t realise he was even in the room until this outburst. Harry just smirked. “That’s the spirit,” he said.

“And you, Potter, let me just tell you where to - “

“Later, will you?” Harry cut across him. “I’m dying for a nap.”

“You - what?” Draco was too confused to be angry.

“Listen, I just had the worst day of my life since the war. I can’t think straight. If we’re going to do this without me trailing behind like a zombie, I need some sleep.”

“But we need to plan! To prepare! What happens if the goblins decide to attack while you’re _sleeping_?!”

“Then that would be very sad indeed,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “But I don’t think so. They had a different plan until I escaped, and I don’t think they’ve even realised I’m gone yet. It’ll take them some time to figure out how to break into the Ministry.” I hope.

“And what’s a zombie, anyway?” Draco demanded, but Harry ignored him. He lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

**-X-**

Harry woke up to the smell of wonderful cooking. This time, his stomach contorted in anger.

“Argh,” he announced to the world in general, and got up. Daphne’s medicine worked like magic - he wasn’t even limping as he walked to the small kitchen, and saw Luna, Malfoy and Daphne all eating a soup that smelled almost as good as Molly Weasley’s cooking.

“Mind if I take some?” he asked. Daphne looked as if she did mind, but eventually she just shrugged. He took this as a hint that he would not have his soup Vanished from his plate and the plate broken on his head, so he took some soup and sat down with them at the table.

“I was thinking, Potter,” Malfoy started immediately, not even waiting for Harry to start eating. “How are we going to even get inside the Ministry? They have security everywhere, especially since the Death Eaters started their attacks. You can’t walk in there, you’re wanted. And no one’s going to let me walk in there without very long questioning.”

He was right, of course. Harry had thought so much about the need to get there and do something, that he had given no thought to the how. “Well,” he said slowly, “the goblins got in and out through a tunnel.”

“Didn’t you say that was how they captured you?” Luna asked, and Harry nodded.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “That’s not an option, then.”

“We don’t know that there was something in the tunnel,” Harry objected. “They probably heard me, I banged my head pretty bad on the ceiling.”

Malfoy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “And I bet it wasn’t the first time,” but Harry chose to ignore it in the name of the new state of truce between them.

“I suppose we can go to the other entrance and check,” Daphne pointed out. “Where is it?”

“Er,” was the best reply Harry could think of.

“You don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“I was unconscious when they took me out! I never saw where it led!”

“Well,” Malfoy said sarcastically, “that’s one brilliant plan you’ve come up with here, Potter. I can see you were clearly the mastermind of the defeat of the Dark Lord.”

“Shove it, Malfoy.”

“No, _you_ shove it. How are we supposed to get in there? We can’t save everyone waiting on the outside - _especially_ if the goblins have their own way in!”

“It’s obvious,” Luna said in her dreamy voice. “We just need a tunnel of our own.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy’s voice had lost none of its sarcasm, even though it was now aimed at Luna, not at Harry. “Exactly. They’re very easy to come by, too.”

As much as it pained him, Harry had to agree with Malfoy. “Look, Luna, having one tunnel leading to the Ministry is unlikely enough, we’d need a miracle to have another tunnel. Or some self-digging - “ he stopped mid-sentence, and touched his nose. “No...” he whispered, his faced breaking into a huge grin.

“What?!” Three faces looked at him, confused.

“There _is_ another tunnel leading to the Ministry of Magic,” he said slowly.

“What are you on about?”

“Like I said - you’re completely bonkers.”

“Tunnels into the Ministry don’t grow on trees, Potter.”

“How do you know?” Luna asked.

“Because I smelled it!” he announced to the confused trio in front of him. “Luna, d’you mind getting Percy Weasley here? We’re going to need him.”

He waited until Percy Weasley had arrived, confused - and then completely bewildered, to see Harry there, next to Draco Malfoy - and then he explained. The self-digging shovels that Fred and George Weasley had accidentally freed the year before had dug a tunnel to Ollivander’s shop, and from there, they continued straight to the Ministry. No one knew of the tunnel except for George and Harry, and no one, not even George, knew where it led to. But now Harry did, because only yesterday he had been to the Ministry and smelled that awful sweet, rotting smell, in the corridor where Albus Dumbledore’s portrait was placed - inside the Atrium.

“Don’t you see?” he asked, excited. “If we take the tunnel, it would lead us straight inside, past the security! All we need to do is get into Ollivander’s!”

Percy looked as if he was about on the verge of a heart attack. “You can’t just go sneaking into the Ministry! It’s dangerous - I know you’ve done some dangerous things in the past, Harry - “ Harry stared at him in disbelief - “but they may have all kinds of security measures there! And who knows what the conditions in the tunnel are! And it’s illegal!” Percy rolled out his best argument.

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

For the second time in half an hour, Harry found himself siding with Malfoy against someone he cared about. Granted, this was Percy, his least favourite Weasley - but he was still a Weasley, and something was just wrong in a world where Harry found himself agreeing with Draco Malfoy over any Weasley, even Percy.

“Um, Perce? I’ve fought Voldemort. I’ve broken into Gringotts. Whatever it is they have in the Ministry, I doubt it’s going to be as dangerous,” he said weakly, doing his best not to start laughing. “And I don’t think we’re going to encounter there anything, no one knows about the tunnel. But you’re welcome to come with us, if you think you know something that could help us,” he added, as to not offend Percy.

“It’s illegal,” Percy tried again, clutching at his last straw.

“The alternative is to do nothing.”

Percy looked from Harry’s determined face, to Malfoy’s somewhat mocking one, to Luna, who was busy staring at the vegetable in her soup and not pay attention to the discussion in the room. Finally, he let go of a pained sigh. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll join you - only to make sure you stay out of trouble!”

“Sure,” Harry let the tiniest smile escape before resuming a serious expression.

“So that’s it, then?” Malfoy asked, “the three of us?”

“The four of us,” Harry said pointedly, pointing at Luna, who was now examining a broccoli stem with the utmost curiosity. “Luna’s coming, too.”

“It would be silly if I didn’t,” she said, giving the first indication that she was even listening to the discussion around her. “I’ve already missed Ancient Runes and Muggle Studies, so I imagine the teachers already noticed I’m gone. Professor McGonagall would be extremely angry if I don’t have a good excuse.”

“The five of us,” Daphne surprised them all, before Malfoy could open his mouth to give another sarcastic comment, as Harry was certain he meant to do.

“You?” he asked surprised.

Malfoy, it seemed, shared the sentiment. “No way,” he said.

“Oh?” she crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Harry was glad it was Malfoy who said those words. Personally, he found Daphne Greengrass very scary. “And why not, exactly?”

“Well, you’re a girl,” Malfoy said. Big mistake. If looks could kill, Draco Malfoy would have dropped dead the moment the words left his lips. Harry was feeling the pain in his leg coming back just from seeing the scathing look Daphne gave Malfoy.

“She’s going,” she snapped. “And I daresay I’m more reliable.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure of that, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

“Why do you even want to go?!” Malfoy demanded. “You were the one who said this was stupid from the second Potter showed up here!”

“I still think this is ridiculous,” she said haughtily, “but as long as you’re doing this for your pride, I figure the more Slytherins on this ridiculous mission, the better. Let them see what Slytherin house can do for them.”

“If you get caught, they may expel your little sister from Hogwarts,” Harry said quietly. This had nothing to do with Death Eaters and the Greengrass sisters had no personal connections with Voldemort’s supporters, but he was quite sure that Will Jones would spin any Slytherin breaking into the Ministry as Death Eater activity.

“My little sister is stuck in Hufflepuff house, the only Slytherin of her year there, and none of the Hufflepuffs would say a single word to her, from morning until evening. She’s thinking of quitting all by herself.”

She looked at him, and he could see in her eyes she was blaming him. “I tried to stop them from doing that,” he said quietly.

“Well, you failed. Maybe I’ll be able to do a better job of it, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “Maybe you will,” he agreed.

“So, the five of us,” Malfoy said, clearly unhappy with this result.

But an idea started forming in Harry’s mind. “Actually,” he said, “I think we may need one other person.”

Convincing Andromeda Tonks to help them proved much more difficult than convincing Percy Weasley. She didn’t care about the illegality of their actions, nor did she seem to care about the danger involved. No - what she cared about crawled on the floor in Daphne Greengrass’s small living room, occasionally trying to pull himself up with the help of the small coffee table.

“I have a responsibility to my grandson,” she said firmly. “And so do you, Harry. You’re his godfather.”

“I know,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Look, Andromeda, we’re not asking you to break into the Ministry with us.”

“Good, because this I will most certainly not do,” she said.

“But if we’re going to get out through the tunnel, we’re going to need a distraction at the security desk.”

“They questioned me until noon yesterday, Harry,” she said sternly. “I doubt that my showing up there is going to do much good - it will be hours before they let me into the Ministry, if they let me in at all.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “I know.”

“Oh,” she said.

“That way, nothing you do can be traced back to us. Whatever happens, if they ask you later why you insisted on coming to the Ministry, you could tell them you came to warn Kingsley about the goblins. And you will - if you manage to get through.”

“But seeing as I’m a _Slytherin_ and was just questioned yesterday about matters concerning Ministry security, the chances that I will get to see the Minister are slim,” she completed the sentence for him.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Very well,” she said finally.

“Brilliant,” Harry said, satisfied He looked at his co-conspirators. In a million years, he would not have dreamed that these would be the people who would accompany him in saving the Ministry. The only one he really trusted was Luna - and she was _Luna_. The rest - Percy Weasley, who until May last year participated in all of the Ministry’s attempts to sully his name; Andromeda Tonks, who still looked too much like her sister Bellatrix for Harry to be truly comfortable; Daphne Greengrass, an unpleasant Slytherin; and of course - Draco Malfoy.

“I must be going out of my mind,” he said.

“Just realising that now, Potter?” Malfoy was quick to taunt him. “I could have told you that eight years ago.”

“Actually, Malfoy, I think you did,” Harry replied, but not with anger. Malfoy just snorted in response, and returned to stare at the ceiling, at Daphne - anywhere but at Andromeda and Teddy, Harry realised all of a sudden.

Of course - they were relatives, he remembered. How could he have forgotten? Andromeda Tonks was not only Bellatrix Lestrange’s sister, but also Narcissa Malfoy’s. He may be Teddy’s godfather, but Malfoy was his cousin. But they had never met - when Andromeda Malfoy decided to marry a Muggle-born, she must have been ostracised by her family.

And now, she wasn’t looking at Malfoy, and he wasn’t looking at her. That was ridiculous.

“Anyway, now that we got all the saving-the-world-as-we-know-it stuff out of the way, I think some introductions are in order,” he said in the most cheerful voice he could muster. “Andromeda, it’s time you meet your nephew.”

Malfoy jumped at these words. Andromeda pursed her lips some more. “I know very well who - and _what_ \- he is,” she said coldly.

Harry stared at her. She couldn’t possibly be saying what he thought she was saying, could she? After everything she was put through, for being a Slytherin, for being the sister of Bellatrix and Narcissa - she was going to turn her back on her nephew?

Malfoy just gave a short laughter. “You’re wasting your breath, Potter. She doesn’t want anything to do with me - and why do you think I want anything to do with her?”

“But you can’t be serious!” he said, completely exasperated. “You can’t possibly - she’s your aunt! You can’t possibly go on with that stupid prejudice about who she married! Not after everything you’ve been through! And you - “ he turned accusingly at Andromeda - “you buried your sister, and she was a lot worse than him.”

“Someone had to bury her,” she said, even colder than before. “I wasn’t going to let them throw her into some pit together with all the _riff-raff_ they had in that room. She was a Black - she deserves better than that, no matter what she did. And besides, she is dead. There is no more harm she can cause. _He_ is alive. There is no limit to the damage he can bring.”

“But you’re family,” Harry said again. “And the war’s over. If you can’t get past that, can’t forgive each other, who can?”

“Tell me, Potter, does anything ever get into that thick head of yours?” Malfoy sneered. “This is what everyone has been trying to tell you since last year.”

Andromeda narrowed her eyes at Malfoy in anger, and all Harry could think of was how much she looked like Bellatrix when she did that.

“No,” he said aloud, making sure they both heard him.

“No?” Malfoy repeated, and Andromeda lifted an eyebrow.

“No. Enough. This ends here.”

“‘This’?”

“This. This vendetta. This ridiculous fight. This war. _It ends, right here, right now! _” Harry didn’t even realise he was shouting. Andromeda and Malfoy looked at him in shock. Even Luna stopped musing at the room and focused on him.__

Harry didn’t care. He picked up Teddy, and gave him to Malfoy to hold. At first, Malfoy flinched, unwilling to be this close to the baby, or perhaps to hold him. Harry didn’t care. As soon as he was sure Malfoy was not going to drop the baby, he stepped back. Malfoy remained there holding Teddy awkwardly, with a mortified look on his face. If Harry was not so angry with both him and Andromeda, he would have burst with laughter at the image.

“Draco Malfoy, meet your cousin, Teddy Lupin,” Harry said.

Teddy started laughing. Malfoy kept on standing there, holding Teddy at a small distance from his body, as if the baby was about to explode.

“Don’t hold him like that,” Andromeda snapped at him. “You’re making him uncomfortable. Here - “ she grabbed Malfoy’s hands and moved them to the right position. “That’s how you do it. Have you never held a baby before, boy?”

“No,” Malfoy mumbled.

“Well, that’s obvious,” Andromeda said disapprovingly.

“You don’t look very much alike,” Luna felt the need to comment, and Daphne started laughing.

“Right.” Malfoy’s face flushed in anger and he returned Teddy to Andromeda. “Are we going to take him with us then? Or aren’t we going anymore? Thought we had a bunch of politicians to rescue. Or have we decided the world would be a better place without them?”

“Rescue. Definitely rescue,” Harry hurried to say, before Malfoy got any ideas.

“So find somewhere to leave the baby and let’s get out of here.”

They all left the small flat, Harry under the invisibility cloak, the rest walking as naturally as they could, not to arouse suspicion. Andromeda left them in front of Ollivander’s shop. She was going to visit George Weasley and ask him to take care of Teddy; then, she would go to the Ministry. She was still reluctant to leave so soon - with no indication as to the length of the tunnel, there was no way of knowing how long she would have to distract the guard. Harry wasn’t as worried. With the mindset the Ministry had shown lately, he was quite sure that Andromeda’s appearance at the gates of the Ministry of Magic would not go uncommented. Well, he thought darkly as they made their way to the back of Ollivander’s shop, there was no rule in the box that said he couldn’t take advantage of the wizarding world’s own stupidity.

They entered Ollivander’s shop as quietly as possible. Ollivander looked at the group, confused, and his face showed fear when he recognised Malfoy, but Percy went to him to calm him down, and beckoned the others to continue to the back room. The smell there was unmistakable - it had the same sweetness, the same rotten tinge, as the smell of the small corridor next to the Atrium. There was no doubt now in Harry’s mind - the tunnel did, indeed, lead to the Ministry.

“So, looks like I’m going to be checking that tunnel after all. George would be so disappointed he didn’t get to come along,” he said.

“Oi, Potter, if you’re through feeling sentimental...” Malfoy called.

“Right.” Harry flicked his wand and the boxes and boxes of wands moved aside, revealing the place where the wall used to be, and now only had a big gaping hole. “Lumos,” he said, and the tip of his wand flickered into life. “Let’s go.”


	16. A Different Ending

It was one of those times that Harry hated to be proven right, and yet, he couldn’t really complain.

As they were walking down the damp and long tunnel, he started worrying. It took them almost half an hour to get to the Ministry - much longer than he had hoped. Andromeda must have been there for at least twenty minutes already, and if he was wrong, they would have had no distraction.

But he wasn’t wrong. He was the first to exit the tunnel, under his invisibility cloak, to make sure no one was around, and the first thing he heard once he entered the Ministry was Andromeda’s angry voice.

“ - Completely unacceptable, I have been waiting here for more than fifteen minutes!” she said indignantly. “I told you, this is a matter that cannot wait!”

Andromeda’s distraction served them just right. Even from his hiding place, he could see how all eyes at the Atrium were aimed at the security wizard, and none thought to look at the small corridor. He rolled his eyes, and turned back.

“All clear,” he whispered back towards the dark tunnel. One by one his unlikely co-conspirators came out: first Luna, then Malfoy, Daphne and Percy, last, an extremely doubtful expression on his face.

“Getting ready to break some rules, Perce?” he whispered, and had to stifle a snigger when Percy’s face turned a nasty shade of green.

Behind them, Malfoy was already complaining. “This corridor smells! I can’t believe no one’s thought to check it up before! Who are they keeping on maintenance here these days? There could have been a body here, and no one would notice!”

“Malfoy - shut - up!” Harry’s urgent whisper threatened to become significantly louder. He was sure Malfoy was making a face behind his back, but at least he was making it quietly.

“Alright, we need to find a place to hide,” Harry muttered to the rest. They retreated to the back of the corridor, far from anyone’s sight. There was a downside to their location, of course. They couldn’t see what went on in the Atrium, either, and had to rely on their ears to tell them what was going on. And there was a downside to the waiting - there was plenty of time to realise that they had no plan.

“Oi, Potter,” Malfoy whispered after five minutes of sitting and waiting quietly, “when are the goblins coming?”

Harry looked at him worried. He hadn’t quite thought of that bit, and he had a feeling Malfoy - and the rest of them, really, perhaps except for Luna - would not appreciate the answer.

“Any moment now,” he whispered to Malfoy, hoping his new found ally won’t think too hard of the answer. Hs hope, of course, went unanswered, as Malfoy managed to connect the dots with Harry’s previous words - or, perhaps, with Harry’s slightly sarcastic tone now.

“You have no idea, do you?” he demanded with a whisper. “It could be _days_ before the goblins show up!”

“I doubt it,” Harry answered, trying to keep both his temper and volume in check.

“Why? Precious Potter asked them nicely to show up today and they obliged?”

It was getting harder and harder not to shout at Malfoy. “No, you idiot. Because they know I escaped, and even if they don’t know that I overheard their previous plan, they’re bound to be worried about me warning everyone. They won’t give me enough time to do that, not if they can help it.”

“Or, you know, they’ll figure everyone’s already realised you’re a nutter anyway and they have nothing to worry about.”

“Harry,” Luna said in her dreamy voice.

“You know, Malfoy, I can’t figure out why you came here if I’m such a nutter.”

“Harry,” Luna tried again.

“I can’t figure out myself to be honest. Trying to save this Ministry is bad enough, but with you?!”

“Draco,” Luna now tried a different approach.

“You didn’t seem to object when I saved your life - twice!”

“Harry,” Percy now joined in with Luna.

“Oh, yeah, bring that one up again!”

“Will you two shut up!” Daphe Greengrass whispered urgently.

“Shhhh!” Harry and Malfoy hissed at her at the same time, ignoring that their own voices were raised only a moment ago. “They’ll hear you!”

“I don’t think the goblins are much concerned with this corridor,” Luna said.

“The goblins? What - “

“They’re here.” She put her finger to her lip. Harry stopped talking at once, as did Malfoy. And indeed, now they could hear them. The angry argument with Andromeda Tonks had become something quieter - but at the same time, more sinister.

“I will not surrender my weapon, wizard,” they could hear the low voice of a goblin.

“This is the Ministry of Magic,” the security wizard at the entrance smirked. “What do you need weapons for? Do you think someone’s going to attack you here?”

“No, human. I am quite aware no one will attack me.”

“Then what d’you need this thing for?”

“To do this.”

They couldn’t see what the goblin did. They could only hear the screams.

Harry jumped to his feet. The goblins had now infiltrated the Ministry, they had to stop them, they had to -

“Sit down, you ridiculous buffoon!” Malfoy pulled him back, causing his knees to smash on the marble floor.

“I don’t care if you’re a coward, Malfoy, we need to go help these people and - “

Malfoy’s palm suddenly blocked his mouth. “And _shut up and listen_!” he whispered urgently, angrily in his ear.

Harry removed the palm with force and anger. What did he do that for? What was so important in listening to innocent people screaming, dying in the other room, when they could stop the goblins, when they could _help_ -

“No one’s using magic!” Malfoy kept on whispering in his ear, probably assuming - correctly - that Harry was on the verge of getting up and charge the Atrium again. “No one’s stopping them! Wizards can stop goblins in seconds! Something’s going on there! Getting there now would only mean getting ourselves killed along with everyone else!”

“We can’t sit here and let them die!”

“Go ahead then, die with them! But if you want to save the Minister, you better start getting your priorities straight!”

Harry hesitated for another second or two, and then got up on his feet again, giving Malfoy a meaningful look. No. He wasn’t going to abandon these people, not when he had the chance to help them. Malfoy rolled his eyes, and pointedly remained seated. That was alright - he didn’t mind. In fact, it was better that way. If he was risking his life for nothing, it was better not to take chances with anyone else’s. That thought was on his mind when Luna got up as well, and he shook his head.

“Malfoy’s right,” he whispered, “we don’t know what they’re doing. Stay here, I’m going to see what’s going on.”

But he didn’t get to take three steps before he stopped - two voices could be heard in the Atrium, on the other side of the small corridor and carried out by the great hall.

“You think Potter was here and got away?” asked one of them - a goblin, by the sound of it.

“I doubt it,” said the other voice, and Harry perked up - it was that centaur, the one who guarded him at the camp. “The wizard said the sphere would affect everyone in its line of sight - including wizards under invisibility cloak. If Potter were here under his cloak, he’d be now screaming and shaking just like the rest of them.”

“Shame,” the goblin sounded almost disappointed.

“Nevermind that. The sword is all that matters.”

Harry tip-toed towards the end of the corridor, until he had the Atrium within eyeshot.

There were wizards and witches on the floor, writhing in agony. Some didn’t move at all. None of them were screaming anymore. At the end of the Atrium, near the security wizard’s desks, stood at least a dozen goblins and centaurs. The familiar centaur, his guard, was now trotting towards the group, holding a device in one hand - a perfect sphere, reflecting the light of the atrium from its shiny silver surface. Harry had never seen anything like it before. But at the same time, his mind was already working - the centaur and the goblin talked about a wizard, a wizard who explained to them how this weapon, whatever it was, worked.

Were there wizards there, too? He scanned the room but couldn’t see anyone but the centaurs and goblins. The goblins were now dividing weapons between themselves - short swords, daggers, even axes. No wands, he noted, and didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad one.

The centaurs did not take up swords or daggers; instead, they all carried bows and arrows on their backs, much like the centaurs had in the Forbidden Forest. Every once in a while, a goblin would offer a spare dagger to a centaur, but the centaur would always snort and reject the weapon with disgust. It was apparently beneath their honour to carry such weapons. Just not beneath their honour to attack the Ministry, Harry thought angrily.

If the goblins’ ways made the centaurs uncomfortable, the wizards and witches made them downright angry. Harry could see that all of the centaurs were looking in the same direction - at the newly restored water fountain in the middle of the Atrium, at the statue of the magical brethren. The statue that depicted them, the centaurs, as the adoring half-witted creatures most wizards considered them to be, looking up to the wizards and witches.

A large centaur trotted towards the water fountain, cruelly stomping over the wizards and witches on the floor. Most of his victims didn’t made a sound, and Harry found himself wondering in horror whether they were already dead, all dead. They can’t be, he thought desperately. Not all of them. Not one of them. Not a specific one of them - not Andromeda. She had gone there because of him. She put herself in danger, so that his plan had a chance. She can’t be dead now. She can’t have died - not because of him. He sought her desperately with his eyes, but there was no way of telling one wizard from the other, not from this distance, and he couldn’t go looking for her, not with the Atrium still crawling with goblins and centaurs. There was nothing he could do, nothing but watch as the centaur arrived at the fountain and kicked it, just at the base.

The stone parted, the gold covering dented. The centaur kicked again - and Harry now saw his face, and realised that he was familiar to him. It was Bane. The hatred on his face was unmistakeable - almost as awful as his glee. With three or four more well-aimed kicks, the statue was down, to the cheers of the rest of the centaurs.

“Well,” said one of the goblins dryly, “if you’ve all finished having fun, maybe it’s time we go and take care of the rest of the Ministry?”

Bane huffed. “We’re still waiting for the wizard,” he said.

“Why?” argued a second goblin. “We don’t need wizards for this! I thought the plan was to get rid of the wizards!”

“There will be plenty of time yet to get rid of this wizard,” Bane’s voice boomed throughout the Atrium. “Right now, we need him. Later...” he didn’t finish his sentence, but instead started laughing an ugly laughter.

Harry looked at them, completely lost. What wizard would help them destroy the Ministry?

“Must be a Death Eater,” he heard a whisper next to him and almost jumped in surprise.

“Malfoy - don’t - do - that!” he whispered through clenched teeth. Malfoy didn’t respond, but kept on scanning the Atrium with his eyes. “You think the free Death Eaters would go this far to attack the Ministry? They despise the goblins and the centaurs!” he pointed out to Malfoy.

“I never said they think it’s some great alliance. But if the Death Eaters want to bring down the Ministry, they’d see them as tools. Let the goblins take care of Shacklebolt and Jones and the rest, and then they’d take over.”

“But that’s ridiculous! Once the goblins manage to do that, who knows what they’ll do?!”

Malfoy shrugged. But a thought came to Harry’s mind, that maybe this was exactly why the Death Eaters would cooperate with the goblins and centaurs. They were bound to underestimate them.

“Look,” Malfoy said all of a sudden and pointed towards the goblins’ tunnel. Harry could see it too - a human figure. A wizard.

Selwyn.

“About time,” the goblin muttered. Bane and the rest of the centaurs, however, weren’t keeping their displeasure with the wizard to themselves.

“You’re late, wizard,” Bane spat.

“Had some things to take care of,” Selwyn said and smiled a toothless smile. “Besides, what difference does it make to you? Attack them now, attack them in five minutes, who cares? I promise you - by the end of this day, our dear Minister will be dead.”

“ _Your_ Minister,” said Bane angrily. “We’ve never recognised your sovereignty.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Selwyn had stopped paying attention to him at all, but instead was looking back at the tunnel - and now, that Harry was looking at it as well, he could see more wizards coming out. More Death Eaters. Two, four, six... when at last the last of the Death Eaters had come out, Harry swore. Seven Death Eaters had just joined the other side.

“Language, Potter,” Malfoy said next to him.

“There’s twenty of them now, in case you haven’t noticed. Or maybe you can’t count.”

“I can count, Potter, enough to be able to tell that there’s twenty- _two_.”

Harry didn’t reply. He didn’t have the heart to make a snide comment or a sarcastic pass at Malfoy’s chitchat. They were outnumbered four-to-one, and he had to assume these Death Eaters were at least somewhat competent, as they had managed to avoid being captured so far; not to mention the dozen or so goblins and centaurs, who after centuries of hatred and oppression by the hands of wizards, had nothing but bloodlust remain in them, the lust for wizards’ blood.

“We don’t stand a chance,” Malfoy spoke the words that Harry was thinking, was trying to avoid thinking. Something in hearing them spoken aloud - especially out of Malfoy’s mouth - changed things. All of a sudden, Harry made his mind.

“Well, I’ve heard that one before. We didn’t have much chance against Voldemort, either. We still defeated him.” He ignored Malfoy’s expression, which clearly asked who exactly were these ‘we’ he was speaking of. “A couple of pathetic wizards, too many goblins for their own good and some centaurs? We can defeat them. Easily.”

“You really lost it,” Malfoy said, too much in awe with Harry’s new found madness to show anger or fear. “You’ve truly lost your mind. You had one lucky streak after the other when you fought Voldemort! You had Dumbledore, planning everything from the get go! We’re here with no plan, no army, against a bunch of vicious creatures!”

“It wasn’t as planned as you think it is,” Harry pointed out. “And besides, who’s to tell we won’t have luck now, too?”

“We don’t need luck, we need a miracle! Look, Potter, I get that you can’t help wanting to be the hero, but I don’t think the rest of society will forgive me if I let you get yourself killed over this nonsense, so if you don’t mind, I - “

“This isn’t nonsense.” Harry looked at Malfoy coldly. “This is it, Malfoy. If we don’t do this, there won’t _be_ a rest of society. There won’t be a wizarding world. If we go against the goblins, if we go against the centaurs, if the Death Eaters win - either way, it’s war, and war will consume us now. This is our one chance to stop it. This is your chance. Prove that you’re a hero, Malfoy. Not a coward. Show that the ancient house of Malfoy can still be relevant. That you’re not just around to do the bidding of egomaniacal Dark Lords. That you can be a part of society, too.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Harry said mercilessly, with a matter-of-fact voice. “So, what will it be? Malfoy the Coward? Or Draco the Hero?”

Now it was Malfoy’s turn to swear, and Harry’s to tut at his choice of language.

Malfoy looked from Harry to the Atrium. “Let’s do it, then,” he said grimly.

“That’s the spirit.”

The strategy they came up with was simple enough - corner as many goblins and centaurs as possible, and Stun them all. As for the Death Eaters, Harry looked at them and said darkly, “We’ll just have to wing it.”

Percy swallowed. Daphne paced nervously. Malfoy became even paler than usual.

Only Luna seemed unconcerned.

“You know something we don’t, Lovegood?” Malfoy challenged her.

“Well, the floors of the Ministry are full of Nargles, my father always said. It shouldn’t be a problem to overcome the Death Eaters - there’s been plenty of time for the Nargles to settle in their brains.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said preemptively, before Malfoy could insult Luna.

“Wasn’t going to say anything,” Malfoy told an obvious lie.

“C’mon,” Harry muttered before they had the chance to start another round of thinly-veiled insults. “Let’s do this.”

They were less than organised - there wasn’t much point in being organised, at any rate. The room was full of goblins, centaurs, and Death Eaters, and any one of those who would get from the Atrium to the lifts would be a danger. They had to stop them from entering the rest of the Ministry.

At the beginning, the general chaos worked in their favour. No one knew what was going on, no one knew they were there, and so when Malfoy and Harry started sending one Stunning spell after the other towards the Death Eaters and hit goblins instead, the fragile alliance between the groups seemed to falter - the goblins shouted “Traitors!” and started running towards the Death Eaters; some of the centaurs, who had also been hit with spells, this time Luna’s, reached the same conclusion, while others were accidentally hit by the goblins’ short swords and hurried to execute their own retribution; the Death Eaters had to fend off both goblins and centaurs. And all the while, Harry and his little group cast one spell after the other, continuing the spirit of utter chaos and trying to take down as many of their opponents as possible while they were at it.

And then, Harry made a mistake. Seeing a familiar Death Eater, he moved away from the shelter of the hidden corridor, trying to make is aim as accurate as possible. It was a false hope to begin with - with the mayhem at the Atrium, there was little chance that any curse would find its rightful target. But Harry had to try - he couldn’t ignore all the people already down, all the wizards that were hurt by the Death Eater’s device, that now may still be alive. But doing so, he was seen.

“It’s Potter!” someone shouted. Immediately, the mayhem ceased, and goblins, centaurs, and Death Eaters all looked in his direction.

“Potter - you idiot!” Malfoy shouted, but it was too late for reprimands. There were still great numbers of their opponents, and they were all going their way now.

“Impedimenta!” Harry shouted, hoping to stop the oncoming wave. “Protego! Impedimenta! Stupify!” He wasn’t aiming anymore, just sending curse after curse.

Luna was the first to join him - he didn’t even see her, but could hear her voice as she threw more Stunning spells forward.

“Get to the lifts!” he shouted at her, at Malfoy, at everyone. “We can’t let them make it to the lifts!”

They walked on backwards, their backs to the lift, casting spells all the while. The numbers they had to deal with were down considerably by now. The mayhem at the beginning had played its role, as did the direct attacks by Harry and Luna. But they still had Death Eaters to battle, and as Daphne and Percy were trying to fend off the remains of the furious centaurs and goblins, Harry, Luna and Malfoy found themselves duelling with four or five Death Eaters.

“Stupify!” Harry shouted, as Malfoy, next to him, cast some curse Harry hadn’t seen before. The Death Eater in front of Malfoy went down, a surprised look on his face.

But the next person to go down was Luna. She managed to save Harry from a curse, casting a well-aimed full body-bind curse at a second Death Eater that was creeping up in Harry’s direction. “Thanks,” he muttered, and she smiled at him, but that momentary loss of concentration allowed another Death Eater to send a different curse in her direction.

“Luna!” Harry shouted, when he saw her body crumple to the floor. “Malfoy - cover me - something - Luna!” he shouted again, and crawled towards her. She was breathing, she was still alive. Her eyes were closed, but her breath was easy, and it didn’t look as if anything was wrong with her. Perhaps she had just been Stunned, Harry dared hoping, even when he knew how unlikely it was for Death Eaters to Stun their opponents.

But there was no time to stop and take care of Luna. Malfoy was battling one Death Eater now - while a second, Selwyn, sneaked past him. He was getting to the lifts.

“Percy!” Harry shouted. “Take care of Luna!” And immediately he got up and started running after Selwyn, casting on curse after the other. He can’t get there - he can’t - Stupify! - Impedimenta! - he can’t - no - Selwyn entered the lift with a victorious squeal, and closed the doors behind him. The lift went up and into the Ministry.

Harry ran into a second lift. He couldn’t seen where Selwyn was going, but he had a pretty good idea.

“Come on, come on, come on!” He shouted at the lift, that insisted on travelling between the floors at a leisurely pace, and stop at each and every floor. “I don’t care about the Department of Magical Cooperation, move it!” he ordered the lift, but the lift gave no indication that it heard him. Or that it cared.

At last, the ride was over. “Have a nice day,” the lift wished him when it opened at the right floor, but Harry didn’t even stop to mutter what he thought about the lift and its _nice day_ before rushing into the corridor. It was empty.

For a moment, he wondered if he was wrong. He had to make a choice, after all - Kingsley’s office, in the first floor, or Will Jones’s, in the second. Was it possible that Selwyn preferred a different floor, a different target for his plans? Was he going after Kingsley after all? With a pinch to the heart, Harry thought of the Minister of Magic, who had always been loyal to him. And now, that he had the chance to warn him, he had chosen a different option. He had chosen to save - no, to believe he had to save - Will Jones.

He knew that if this was wrong, he would be too late. There was no way he could get to Kingsley in time. Doubt started engulfing him. All he could hope was that Kingsley, an ex-Auror, heard the mayhem downstairs, was aware something was going on, that if Sewlyn came by his office, it would not be a complete surprise. That would have been their best contribution, in the end - they made so much noise, someone was bound to notice.

Even if this corridor was completely quiet. Even if it seemed that the second floor of the Ministry of Magic was completely undisturbed. Even if it looked like everyone here was completely oblivious to the battle downstairs.

He had to hope.

And then his heart leapt. He heard footsteps - running. “Hey!” he shouted, running after the noise, hoping beyond ope that it was Selwyn, that his shout will get someone’s attention, even if only Selwyn’s. Anything to slow him down.

A jet of green light came his way. Definitely Selwyn, he thought, but for some reason he wasn’t quite as comforted as he thought he’d be as he ducked and evaded the curse. The wall next to him shook when the stream of light hit it. He picked up the pace, trying to catch up with the Death Eater - and there he was, he could see him, running forward in the corridor, forward towards Will Jones’s office.

“Stupify!” Harry shouted, trying to catch the fleeing Death Eater. He missed, and Selwyn had gone around a corner and dodged the spell in the last moment. Harry continued after him - only to be hit by something as soon as he came back in the line of sight of the Death Eater.

He fell. His wand flew out of his hand from the force of the fall, and rolled on the floor, exactly in the wrong direction. Harry had no way of getting it in time. And Selwyn was now getting closer, a look of pure bloodlust on his face. Harry tried to get up, but couldn’t, the force of the spell was still too strong for him to overcome. He was helpless.

“Well well well,” said Selwyn, an evil glint in his eye. “The great Harry Potter. All helpless, right in front of me.”

“That’s what your pal Voldemort thought!” Harry shouted, improvising widely. It was his only chance, to convince Selwyn that he didn’t _want_ to kill him. “And it still didn’t help him! What makes you think you can succeed where Voldemort failed?”

Selwyn paused. Harry allowed himself a mad moment of hope - it was working! Selwyn wasn’t going to kill him! But then, his opponent seemed to make up his mind, and started progressing again towards Harry. “I think I can take that risk,” he said, and smiled an ugly smile as he saw Harry trying to get out of the way.

And then - someone came running and paused, right behind Harry.

“Draco!” Selwyn called in delight. “At last, some help! Care to finish the job?” he gestured at Harry.

Harry could hear footsteps - Malfoy’s footsteps - as he walked across the corridor, from behind Harry to Selwyn’s side.

“He’s the reason we lost everything,” Selwyn whispered. “Without him, we would have won.”

“Yeah,” Malfoy said, and Harry stared at him in shock and disgust. No - it can’t be -

“We can end this now,” Selwyn continued talking. “A proper end to the war. Harry Potter’s dead body. And right here, in the Ministry of Magic!” His laughter sounded almost delighted. “How appropriate.”

“It would be, wouldn’t it,” Malfoy nodded.

“So what do you say, Draco?”

Malfoy paused for a moment. “I say what they’ve been saying since May, Selwyn. The war’s over.” Harry didn’t even realise which spell Malfoy used, but the next moment, Selwyn was on the floor, his eyes closed.

“Is he - “ he started asking.

“No,” Malfoy looked in disgust at the Death Eater - and his expression hadn’t changed when he turned to look at Harry. “Just stunned.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, and only now realised he was holding his breath the whole time. He let out a long breath, a sigh of relief. “For a moment there I thought - “

“Yeah. I know what you thought.”

Malfoy walked towards Harry now, towering over him, as Harry tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up. “So, I reckon now _you_ owe _me_ one?” he asked, and there was a hint of hope in his voice, hidden somewhere between the jokey tone.

Harry sniffed. “I guess we can call it even,” he said.

“I guess so,” Malfoy said, and sounded just a tad bit disappointed. “So do me a favour, Potter. Next time you get the urge to play the hero and save the world, get Granger and the Weasel to play the sidekick. I don’t think this is for me.”

Harry chuckled. “Done. Now help me up, will you?”

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, and then stretched his hand to Harry, ready to pull him up. Harry took it without a second thought.


	17. A New Beginning?

The first thing Harry did was go down back to the Atrium, to check on his friends. Luna was already up and running - apparently, it really was just a Stunning Spell, Harry shook his head in surprise. She was crouching in a corner of the room, next to the security desk - next to Andromeda Tonks.

“Andromeda!” he called, and joined the two. To his relief, Andromeda was already awake, despite twisting her face in pain. She was sat by the security barrier, holding her head in her hands, and moaning slightly. “Are you alright?” he asked them both, and she nodded, while Luna smiled and said, “Of course!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If you’d have - I mean, you could have died. I should never have asked you to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense,” she said, the pain obvious in her voice. She opened her mouth to say something more, but never did. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked again, and got for his trouble an expression that seemed just as pained from his repetitive questions as it was from the physical pain Andromeda was still feeling.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered with a smile, and then jumped, because someone behind him called his name.

It was Kingsley.

The Aurors were now pouring into the room. Some through the lifts, from the floors above. These came with other members of the Ministry - Fudge, Will Jones, Robards, all came down, looking at the Atrium in confusion and alarm. A second group came through the gates - including Savage and the Auror trainees. “Secure that tunnel!” Savage barked at Seamus and Katie, who immediately started casting spells at the entrance, to prevent more goblins from entering through it. The others walked in through the open gates and joined in with the rest.

In the confusion, Ron and Neville spotted Harry and walked towards him. When they got there, Ron looked around the Atrium and whistled. “What’s going on? This looks like a war zone!”

Harry turned around to look. The centaurs were grouped in one area, contained by magic. Some of the looked hurt; others mostly angry. The goblins were all centred in another area of the Atrium, behind the fallen statue, and were now contained by Kingsley’s magic. Finally, Harry thought, someone heard the noise upstairs and came looking. Only slightly too late. In the meantime, Mediwizards and Healers moved around the people on the ground, helping them up, treating their wounds. It really did look like a war-zone.

“Well, in a way, it sort of is,” he admitted to Ron. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“No doubt about that...” Ron smirked.

They weren’t left alone for too long. As soon as Kingsley was sure the goblins were contained, he joined them, together with Will Jones.

“I suppose we have you to thank for this mess,” Kingsley said, not unpleasantly, while Will Jones stretched his hand and grabbed Harry’s.

“You never stop to save us, Mr Potter, do you? It looks like once again, we owe you our thanks!”

Harry didn’t want to look at him. Instead, his gaze fell on the wall Behind Kingsley, where he could see Malfoy, already being questioned by two of the Aurors. “Actually, Minister, I think you will find it is Draco Malfoy you should be thanking.”

Ron turned almost purple at that proclamation. Kingsley seemed put off, too. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. Meanwhile, Will Jones’s handshake stopped abruptly, and he clutched Harry’s palm in shock.

“None of us would have been here if it wasn’t for Malfoy. Especially you and me, Mr Jones. Malfoy’s the one who stopped Selwyn, you see.”

Jones swallowed, but said nothing. He let go of Harry’s hand.

“Actually, as long as we’re here...” Harry said and rushed to the entrance, where Rita Skeeter was already standing and dictating things to her Quick-Quotes-Quill.

“Harry!” she beamed at him. “Imagine seeing you here! Well, I should have known, of course, the wizarding world’s constant hero, you just can’t get away from danger, can’t you? If you’d like, I - “

“You can print this. Are you listening, everyone?” he called, especially towards the Aurors who were still talking to Malfoy. “You’re all automatically assuming this was me, but the truth is, it wasn’t me who saved the Ministry today. I’m not the hero you’re looking for. They are. You want to know who saved you? Percy Weasley, who got sacked from the Ministry for staying with his job last year. Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin. Andromeda Tonks, Bellatrix Lestrange’s sister. And mostly Draco Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater.” Everyone turned to stare at Draco, who, while flushed, still managed to look so arrogant and smug.

Rita stopped her scribbling to go through the entrance barrier and start throwing rapid questions at Malfoy. The Aurors seemed annoyed, but more with her than with him. In fact, when they next turned to Malfoy, their expressions seemed almost friendly.

“Minister, I’m getting quite a tale here,” Rita called to Kingsley. “Any comment?”

Kingsley looked from her to Malfoy, and then to Harry. “Only what Harry had been trying to tell us all this time, Rita. We’ve lived in fear for far too long. We were afraid before the war, and during the war, and in this past year, too, we’ve been constantly afraid. As Harry has been telling us for a while, the war is over. It’s time we let go of our fears. Perhaps, what has transpired here this day will help us find that path. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have some duties to attend to.”

He turned now to Harry. “There are some things I need to do with all of this mess, but I want to talk to you. Don’t worry about Malfoy - “ he interpreted correctly the suspicious look Harry had given the Aurors - “he won’t be arrested. And neither will you. But we still need to talk. Will you wait for me in my office?”

Harry nodded. “You want to look for a goblin named Gleyok,” he said, and then added, “and a centaur named Bane.”

When Kingsley left, Harry turned to Ron and Neville. “Any chance you’ll stay here to wait for me?” Harry asked them, and Ron said ‘sure’ without even thinking, before Neville pointed out that they will stay, as long as Savage allowed them to.

“Hopefully you’ll finish whatever it is Kingsley wants of you by then,” Ron said, and Harry went into the lifts again, this time to the first floor, to Kingsley’s office.

He hadn’t been there for a minute before the door opened. He expected to see Kingsley - and was completely unprepared to see Professor McGonagall walking into the room.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Nice to see you too, Potter,” she said dryly.

“Sorry - Professor - I didn’t mean - “

“Don’t worry about it,” she said shortly. “As it happens, I’m here because a very persistent wizard, who does not know how to stop interfering in other people’s business even after his death, has insisted that I come,” she said sharply, and Harry now noticed the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, sitting and drinking tea with Rufus Scrimgeour. “And also, seeing as you’ve dragged one of my students along, I came to fetch her.”

“It wasn’t Luna’s fault,” Harry said automatically. “I’ve asked her to come with me, to help me.”

“Funny. She says just the opposite, she says you suggested she came back and that she insisted on staying.”

“Please don’t punish her or anything, Professor? After all, she just helped to save the Ministry.”

“In that case, I must say that you’ve rather failed to mention her in that little speech you gave down there,” McGonagall noted.

“Yeah. I - uh - I thought the impact would be stronger if I only mentioned people like Malfoy and Andromeda.”

“So I gathered. But Ms Lovegood has left the school, she will have to face the consequences. I wouldn’t worry too much about her though,” her face softened at Harry’s expression. “It has always been my firm belief that saving lives and the world as we know it is worth a couple of house points. But I’m not here to discuss Ms Lovegood.”

“Why are you here, then, Professor?” Harry asked curiously.

“I’m here because Dumbledore was not the only one who insisted I come.” She shoved a piece of cloth into his hand. He looked at it - the Sorting Hat. He looked at her, confused. “The hat insisted that you should wear it again,” she said, and looked quite affronted at having to do a hat’s bidding.

“What does it want with me?” Harry looked at the hat suspiciously. He had already worn it twice - once more than any other wizard or witch he had known about. He did not look forward to putting it on a third time.

But McGonagall just shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said. “It wouldn’t tell me. Insisted on talking to you. Looks like you’ll have to put it on and find out, Potter.”

Reluctantly, he opened the hat. It was scorched and slightly burnt, a reminder of Voldemort’s curse. Harry was surprised that it hadn’t completely burnt off - after all, the magic that had protected his friends should not have extended to the hat. It must have had strong magic of its own, to withstand that curse. He took a deep breath, and put the hat on.

There was nothing there. No noise, no voice, nothing. Just silence and darkness.

And then he heard it - a voice. The Sorting Hat’s voice.

“Well, well, well. Finally, we speak again, Harry Potter. I thought it will be sooner then this.”

“Why?”

“Well, I thought you would like to know whether you could still have been sorted into Slytherin. Now that you don’t have a piece of the Dark Lord within you.”

Harry looked into the darkness inside the hat. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that it was Voldemort’s soul that the Sorting Hat saw that day, that made him suggest sorting Harry into Slytherin.

“Funny, I would have thought you would take any opportunity to dissociate yourself from Slytherin, even after all this time. But what do I know? I’m a Hat.”

“Do you still think so, then? That I could have been a Slytherin?” he asked the hat, but got no response. “What, so that’s what you wanted to talk to me about? This was so important? Just taunting me about having Voldemort’s soul within me?”

“My, you do have a temper, don’t you, Potter. No, this was what I wanted to tell you, but I was under the impression you would want to ask me some things of your own accord.”

What could Harry possible want to ask the hat about? He thought. He could ask him about - next year’s sorting, as long as they were on the topic of Slytherin.

“Oh, yes, the Hogwarts houses. Well, as I said, I am just a hat.”

“So you’re only doing what you’re told,” Harry thought bitterly.

“No, I’m only doing what I was bewitched to do by the Founders.”

“But you were bewitched to sort the students of Hogwarts into four houses,” Harry thought.

The hat didn’t reply, but Harry had the distinct feeling that the silence from the hat was a smug one. A smug hat, he thought, just what the wizarding world needed.

“Could be worse, Potter. If you think I’m smug, you should see that sword you’re so fond of.”

The sword! “The goblins want it, and we may need it! But nobody knows where it is.”

The hat said nothing.

“You must know. At least, it’s possible to draw it out of you - I’ve done it, and so did Neville.”

“That is correct. In times of need - and after showing Godric Gryffindor’s favoured trait bravery, might I add - a Gryffindor could pull the sword out of me, no matter where it was before.”

So why can’t we do it now?

“At times of need, Potter.”

“But these are times of need! There might be a another war, if we don’t find the sword.”

“Not enough, Potter. The sword must stay where it is, until the day it is truly needed. That day, the champion of Gryffindor would pull it out of me again, I promise you that. Until that day arrives, it must remain in its place, undisturbed.”

But where is it? Harry insisted, but got no response. The Sorting Hat had said what it had to say, Harry knew, and could not be convinced to continue. With a sigh, he took it off.

Professor McGonagall was eyeing him curiously. “It’s a rare thing,” she said, “that the Sorting Hat wishes to talk to one individual.”

“Yeah, well, it was more hints and riddles than actual talk,” Harry said in disappointment, and handed the hat over to her. She took it gingerly, and then stuffed it somewhere in her robes.

“Well, I must leave. And take Ms Lovegood back to the school. Please don’t encourage any of my other students to miss classes, Potter,” she said, her voice as stern as ever, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Don’t worry, Professor,” he said, and she left. Perhaps five seconds later, the door opened again.

“Have you forgotten something, Professor?” he asked, but it wasn’t McGonagall this time - now, it was Kingsley who walked in.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Harry. There was a thing or two I wanted to discuss with Will Jones.”

“Good,” Harry said. He had an inclination he knew what those things were. And indeed, Kingsley nodded in agreement.

“First, I wanted to ask you the same question I did the last time we met. Will you re-join the Ministry?”

“Will things change now?” Harry asked.

“Not everything,” Kingsley said, and Harry appreciated his honesty. “But already after our chat yesterday I’ve decided that I should apply my Ministerial veto more often. After all, I have it for a reason, I may as well use it.” Harry smiled at this remark.

“Slytherin House?” he asked. “The Sorting Hat says it will continue sorting into four houses.”

“Yes, we’re aware of that. There has been a team of Ministry wizards researching the spells that were used to create the Sorting Hat. Until this matter is solved, I believe we will have to continue with all four houses of Hogwarts school.”

“And when do you expect the matter to be solved?” Harry asked carefully.

“Well, with all the recent problems with goblins and centaurs, I imagine we’re going to need the manpower for other, more urgent tasks. The matter of Slytherin House is simply not a priority at this time.”

Harry’s face broke into a smile. “You’re getting better at this whole politics thing, Kingsley,” he commented.

“As are you, I think. That was quite a speech you gave down there.” For a moment, it seemed as if Kingsley wanted to say something more, but then he thought better of it.

“Will there be a war?” Harry asked quietly.

“Right now it looks like it, yes. We’ve looked for the goblin you mentioned. He wasn’t amongst the goblins who were in charge of the attack. He’s still out there.”

“And Bane?”

“Bane has never been the leader of his herd, Harry, although he is probably the loudest. If he’s here, it’s because someone else had told him to.”

“So they’re still out there.”

“They’re still out there,” Kingsley agreed. “And we’ve just received an ultimatum to hand over the Sword of Gryffindor.”

“Did you tell them we don’t have it?”

Kingsley sighed. “The goblins don’t seem to care much what we tell them, Harry. After centuries of lies, they no longer believe us.”

“This isn’t right,” Harry blurted out, more of his tiredness and frustration than because he actually thought his saying so would do any good. “All of it. The war was supposed to be over, but it seems like it’s just continuing in different ways.”

“That’s why we need you here, Harry. At the Ministry. I’m willing to let you skip training altogether - we’re rushing everyone through as it is, and the final test is evading capture for three days. You’ve already done better than that, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re now an Auror. Come back and join us.”

“What about Savage?”

“He will not be returning to his work as an Auror. He will remain only as an instructor.”

“And Robards?”

Kingsley shifted his gaze from Harry. “If I have proof,” he said quietly, “I will deal with him. Until then, I can’t do much.”

“What about the Slytherins? Following people, keeping tabs, suspecting anyone who’s even remotely connected to them?”

“Some of it will stop now,” Kingsley said gravely.

“But not all.”

“Not all,” he agreed. “Will Jones - “

“Will Jones is - “

“Will Jones and I had a talk,” Kingsley talked over Harry, unwilling to let him interrupt, “and I have explained to him the importance of trust in our society. He is unhappy, but he will cooperate, for the meantime. Whether his cooperation will last a week, a month, or my entire term as Minister - I don’t know.”

“And afterwards? When he stops cooperating, or when the goblins attack, or the centaurs? What then? And what if there are more Death Eaters, what will he do then?”

“Afterwards, anything can happen.”

“So that’s it. This is what it comes down to. Yesterday they had the power, and so they killed us. Today the places have turned and we have the power, so we kill them, and tomorrow they start killing us all over again?” Harry paced up and down the room in impotent anger. From his portrait, Rufus Scrimgeour looked at him disapprovingly, but Albus Dumbledore sipped his painted tea in complete calm, and Harry was sure he winked at him, for just a split second. It didn’t make him feel better - it made him feel worse.

“That’s the way it’s always been.”

“So what, I’m supposed to just sit back and accept it?”

“That’s what most of us do.”

“Well, I can’t.”

Now Kingsley was on his feet too, and faced Harry. “Then you have a choice to make. You had so much power at the end of the war, but you decided you didn’t want it. And then you lost it, and things went out of your control. Now you saved the Ministry, and everyone knows it was you despite your little speech about Draco Malfoy, and you’ve probably managed to turn the tide in people’s minds about Malfoy and the Slytherins, just for a bit. At this moment, you have that power again.”

“They won’t listen to me. They didn’t listen to me last time,” Harry said angrily, all of the frustrations of the past months rising in him again - Malfoy’s trial, how quickly people believed the Prophet about him, how no one wanted to listen.

“No, they didn’t. They were afraid, and you’ve done nothing to calm their fear. But now you can start over. And if you can stop rejecting everything they want to give you, perhaps now they will also listen.”

It hadn’t been the first time Kingsley had asked that of him. That time in summer, too, he had come and asked the impossible. He had asked Harry to allow himself to be used. And now, he was asking again, and Harry didn’t know what to answer.

  
**-X-**   


Harry thought about Kingsley’s words all the way to the Atrium. He was surprised to still see Ron and Neville there - he had expected they would be gone by now.

“Savage said we get the rest of the day off,” Neville shrugged.

“I think they’re all so very excited that you caught Selwyn, they just want to go and celebrate somewhere,” Ron added.

“Maybe now that he’s caught things will be back to normal,” Neville said hopefully.

“Maybe,” Harry answered, unconvinced.

“Listen, we need to go to Hogwarts,” Ron pointed out. “Hermione and Ginny will never forgive us if we don’t go there and fill them in - hell, I’m not sure they’ll forgive you when they hear you were there and got Luna to help you instead. - And Malfoy! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, ‘why not?’,” Harry said, and even though he didn’t realise it before, he knew as soon as he said the words that they were absolutely, completely true.

They were out of the Atrium now, out of the Ministry. Even though it wasn’t very late, it was already dark outside. People, unsuspecting Muggles, walked back and forth in the street, hurrying home after a day’s work, another boring day in the office. The kind of day Harry now knew with certainty he was never going to have.

He could see Rita Skeeter, still standing near the Ministry, deep in conversation with Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass. Harry didn’t mind - Malfoy deserved his fifteen minutes of glory, after all, that was what Harry had promised him. They didn’t even notice him, and Harry, grateful, turned away, not wanting to be spotted.

The street was wet, and still smelt of rain, but now the sky was clear of clouds, and stars were starting to come out. Harry stared at them for a moment, still thinking. He was thinking so deeply that he didn’t hear Ron’s words at first.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“I said,” Ron repeated quietly, “what are you going to do now?”

Harry thought of the end of his conversation with Kingsley. ‘So what?’ he had asked Kingsley, no longer angry, only tired. ‘Become a politician? Like Fudge? Like Umbridge?’

‘No,’ Kingsley had replied. ‘Not like Fudge. Not like Umbridge. Not even like me.

‘Be something better.’

“I don’t know,” Harry said now to Ron, even though he thought he knew. Even though he already decided, back then in Kingsley’s office. But that would be tomorrow’s problem. That was something he would worry about later. Tonight, he was still his own man. Tonight, he was still eighteen, still a teenager. Tonight, he was still Just Harry. He took a deep breath. “Let’s go to Hogwarts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, dear readers! I know this ending feels a little bit, shall we say, open. Let's admit it, any point after this would be too depressingly political even for me. However, as you can probably guess from the way this story ended, I am going to write a couple of extremely loose sequels, 'Inter Arma...' and 'War Without End'. Hopefully, you won't have to wait ages and ages for them.


End file.
